I   II    III      I   III    I   HI       •!•!•'  

3  1822  01082  3789 


jElisabetfi 


3   1822  01082  3789 


ANGELICA 


ELISABETH  SANXAY  HOLDING 


By 

Elisabeth  Sanxay  Holding 


ANGELICA 

ROSALEEN  AMONG  THE 
ARTISTS 

INVINCIBLE  MINNIE 


George  H.  Doran  Company 
New  York 


ANGELICA 


BY 


ELISABETH  SANXAY  HOLDING 


NEW  ^SJT  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1921, 
BY  ELISABETH  SANXAY  HOLDING 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

G. 

RESTLESS  SEEKER  FOR  ROMANCE 

IS  DEDICATED   THIS   STORY 

OF  THE    END   OF   A 

ROMANCE 


ANGELICA 

PART  ONE 

CHAPTER  ONE 

Mrs.  Kennedy  got  up  from  her  knees,  wrung  out  the  filthy 
and  dripping  cloth  in  her  hands,  and  looked  back  with  a 
sigh  over  the  stairs  she  had  just  cleaned. 

"It'll  have  to  do,"  she  said,  "until  to-morrow." 

Then,  pail  in  hand,  she  descended  to  the  basement  and 
pushed  open  with  her  foot  the  door  of  her  flat — three  black 
little  rooms  with  barred  windows  on  a  lugubrious  air-shaft, 
where  great  ash-cans  stood  and  cats  prowled  and  tradesmen 
went  whistling  by  with  bags  and  bottles.  A  tiny  jet  of  gas 
flickered  in  the  passage  to  light  her  as  she  staggered  along 
to  the  kitchen,  there  to  set  down  the  heavy  pail  with  a 
jerk  that  sent  a  flood  of  dirty  water  over  her  feet. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  sighed  again,  patiently. 

She  lit  the  gas  and  looked  about  her.  There  in  the  sink 
were  the  dishes  from  breakfast ;  and  across  the  tin  covers  of 
the  wash-tubs  scurried  a  multitude  of  roaches,  disturbed 
as  they  feasted  on  the  crumbs  there.  All  this  deeply  dis 
turbed  her,  for  she  was  a  good  housewife,  and  a  neat  little 
body  altogether;  but  she  knew  herself  to  be  blameless.  It 
couldn't  be  helped. 

As  janitress  of  this  Harlem  apartment-house,  she  was 
permitted  to  live  rent  free  in  exchange  for  certain  services, 
and  her  honour  was  engaged.  She  had  to  keep  up  the  ap- 

9 


io  ANGELICA 

pearance  of  the  place.  She  had  to  scrub  the  stairs,  the 
corridors,  the  vestibule,  to  clean  the  windows  on  the  five 
landings.  She  had  also  to  sweep  the  vacant  flats  and  display 
them  to  any  one  who  came  to  look  at  them. 

After  this  was  done,  there  was  still  her  living  to  make. 
She  did  "charing"  by  the  day  and  half-day;  she  took  home 
washing  to  be  done  at  night ;  she  did  all  those  dirty  and  un 
pleasant  tasks  which  even  the  shabby  tenants  of  this  shabby 
house  couldn't  endure  to  do  for  themselves.  There  were 
many  days  when  she  left  her  dismal  little  place  early  in  the 
morning  and  wasn't  able  to  re-enter  it  until  after  dark.  It 
gave  her  a  feeling  of  terrible  discouragement  to  come  home 
to  it  like  this,  all  in  disorder  and  sordid  confusion.  The 
thought  of  it  would  haunt  her  all  day  as  she  worked. 

It  was  late,  as  she  saw  by  the  clock,  but  she  felt  obliged 
to  rest,  just  for  a  minute.  She  sat  down  and  closed  her 
eyes.  She  couldn't  really  rest  until  fatigue  was  gone  and 
she  was  refreshed ;  the  best  she  might  expect  was  some  little 
respite  from  her  labour. 

She  was  a  thin  little  woman  of  limitless  endurance;  she 
could  suffer  everything ;  but  her  drawn,  hollow-cheeked  face, 
her  faded  eyes,  gave  testimony  to  the  cost  of  her  dreadful 
and  heroic  struggle.  She  was  forty,  but  she  looked  sixty. 
She  had  a  blurred  look,  like  a  partially  erased  drawing.  She 
seemed  literally  worn  out,  rubbed  thin,  part  of  her  vanished. 

The  clock  struck  six,  and  she  jumped  up. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  she  sighed  again.  "Well,  I'll  make  myself  a 
cup  of  tea  first  thing;  then  I'll  run  out  to  the  corner  and 
get  a  bite  of  something  for  Angelica's  supper.-" 

The  tea  did  her  good.  She  felt  warmed  and  comforted, 
and  a  little  less  reluctant  to  undertake  more  work.  Then, 
with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  she  hurried  out  into  the  windy 
March  street,  to  the  little  grocer's  on  the  corner. 

It  was  a  sore  temptation  to  linger  there,  where  it  was  warm 
and  brightly  lighted,  and  there  were  people  to  talk  with,  and 
the  young  man  was  so  agreeable  to  her.  She  was  a  favourite 


ANGELICA  ii 

of  his,  in  spite  of  her  buying  so  little,  for  she  was  a  civil 
little  woman  who  gave  no  trouble  and  always  had  her  mind 
made  up  before  coming  into  the  shop.  But,  with  her  usual 
little  sigh,  she  tore  herself  away,  bade  the  young  man  good 
night,  and  hurried  home  again. 

To  her  eyes  even  Eighth  Avenue,  with  the  tawdry  little 
shops  crowded  with  the  very  poor,  or  the  very  careless, 
buying  their  dinners  at  the  last  instant,  looked  festive, 
looked  enticing.  She  didn't  get  out  much;  she  hadn't  even 
a  window  through  which  she  could  see  the  street.  She 
thought  to  herself  that  it  would  be  nice  to  take  a  walk  after 
supper  with  Angelica,  to  look  in  the  windows  to  see  what  the 
fruit-seller  had  to  offer,  to  view  the  absorbing  display  in  the 
five-and-ten-cent  store ;  but  she  was  quite  sure  that  Angelica 
couldn't  be  induced  to  do  any  such  thing.  She  required 
something  better  than  that ! 

It  was  the  spur  of  Angelica's  requirements  that  drove 
forward  the  weary  Mrs.  Kennedy.  If  she  didn't  have  things 
nice,  Angelica  would  rearrange  and  do  over  until  she  was 
suited.  She  didn't  complain  much,  but  wasn't  she  exacting! 
Like  a  man,  her  mother  used  to  say.  She'd  never  be  sat 
isfied  with  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  little  thing  you'd  maybe 
have  left  from  the  day  before.  Plenty  of  variety  there 
must  be,  and  a  clean  cloth,  too. 

She  was  brisk  and  deft  about  her  preparations  when  she 
got  home ;  but  she  wasn't  quite  prepared  when  the  bell  rang 
three  times,  by  way  of  announcement  only,  as  the  door  was 
always  unlatched,  and  into  the  kitchen  came  her  daughter 
Angelica — her  only  child. 

Angelica  was  not  regarded  by  her  peers  as  beautiful,  for 
the  quality  of  her  beauty  was  not  obvious.  She  was  looked 
at,  stared  at,  fiercely  desired ;  she  was  often  enough  followed 
in  the  street;  and  yet  not  one  of  these  admirers  would  have 
called  her  beautiful.  There  was  "something  about  her," 
that  was  all — something  not  to  be  resisted.  She  herself  was 
only  dimly  aware  of  it.  She  knew  well  enough  that  she  was 


12  ANGELICA 

alluring,  that  she  possessed  some  enchantment  to  enthrall 
men.  She  knew  by  some  instinct  how  to  use  her  charm, 
but  she  didn't  comprehend  it  or  appreciate  it.  She  regarded 
herself  with  a  pleased  and  wondering  interest.  A  pale,  nar 
row  face  with  strange  black  eyes,  not  quite  alike;  a  rich, 
scornfully  curling  mouth;  the  mysterious,  adorable  languor 
of  an  old  Italian  Madonna — an  exciting  languor,  like  that 
of  a  drowsy  panther;  and  with  this  curious  and  touching 
beauty  went  a  swaggering  impudence,  the  speech,  the  ges 
tures  of  a  thorough  gamine.  Then  there  was  her  walk,  the 
exaggerated  suppleness  of  her  thin  young  body,  the  rakish 
tilt  of  her  broad-brimmed  hat,  the  movement  of  her  skirts, 
and  a  naive  wickedness  that  seemed  shocking,  almost  blas 
phemous,  in  conjunction  with  that  wonderful  face. 

And  it  was  this  air  of  bravado,  this  gamine  swagger, 
which  she  fancied  was  her  charm.  The  poetry  of  her,  the 
exquisite  subtleness  of  her  face,  she  didn't  recognize.  Her 
mother  alone  had  some  inexpressible  and  formless  idea  of 
this.  She  saw  something  rare  and  heart-breaking  in  her 
child,  something  that  robbed  her  of  any  pretense  of 
authority. 

"Tired?"  she  asked  her  now. 

"No!"  said  Angelica  scornfully.  "Bacon?  That's  nice. 
Have  it  good  and  crisp,  mommer.  No,  I'm  not  tired — only 
sort  of  sick  of  things." 

She  sat  down  before  the  table  and  waited,  her  chin  on 
her  hand,  somber,  frowning,  in  a  mood  which  her  mother 
knew  well  and  dreaded.  She  put  the  plates  on  the  table  and 
stood,  waiting,  too  nervous  to  eat.  She  could  see  that 
Angelica  had  something  on  her  mind,  and  there  would  be 
no  peace  till  she  had  got  rid  of  it. 

"Hurry  up  and  eat,  mommer,"  she  said  impatiently;  "so 
we  can  go  to  the  movies  after." 

"I  haven't  any  money,  deary." 

"I'll  pay." 


ANGELICA  13 

Her  mother  was  startled.  How  could  Angelica  have 
money  to  spare  on  a  Thursday? 

"I  got  paid  off,"  said  Angelica. 

"Discharged,  Angie?  I  thought  you  were  doing  so 
well " 

"Discharged  nothing!     I  quit." 

"But  what  in  the  world It  was  a  good  job,  wasn't 

it?  You  said  it  was." 

A  sudden  and  vivid  expression  of  disgust  lit  up  her  child's 
face. 

"My  Gawd,  mommer !  I  got  so  sick  of  it!  Sitting  at  that 
machine,  all  day  and  every  day.  Those  girls — and  the  fel 
lers!  So  blame  sick  of  it,  mommer!  7  don't  know — I  got 
thinking.  It  seems  to  me  maybe  I  could  do  better  somewhere 
else." 

"They're  all  about  the  same,  I  guess — those  factories.  I 
can't  see  what  good  it'll  do  you  to  be  changing  so  often, 
Angelica.  The  girls  are  all  the  same;  unless  maybe  you 
could  get  into  one  of  the  big  stores,  and  they  don't  pay  near 
as  much." 

"What's  the  good  of  that?  Just  as  bad.  No,  mommer, 
I  want — something  different.  Oh,  mommer,  I  want  to  get 
something  out  of  life!" 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  in  silence.  She  comprehended 
her  perfectly.  Hadn't  she  been  like  that  herself  long,  long 
ago — restless,  hungry  for  life,  forever  seeking  something 
new?  Not,  of  course,  in  this  foreign  and  vehement  way. 
She  had  never  been  capable  of  speaking  so  crudely,  so  vio 
lently,  as  her  child;  but  though  they  hadn't  a  feature,  a 
gesture,  an  intonation  alike,  they  partook  of  the  same  in 
domitable  spirit. 

"I  know!"  she  said.  "It's  hard — terrible  hard;  but  it's 
only  worse  if  you're  always  fighting  against  it.  There's 
no  chance  for  people  like  us,  and  we've  got  to  put  up  with  it. 
We  can't  get  what  we  want.  Whatever  kind  of  work  you 
choose,  it'll  be  just  as  hard." 


I4  ANGELICA 

Angelica,  her  head  in  her  hands,  was  looking  straight 
before  her. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  began,  "why  I  shouldn't  try,  anyway, 
to  go  up  instead  of  down." 

"There's  no  call  to  go  down,"  said  her  mother;  "but  you'll 
find  it  hard  enough  just  to  keep  the  same.  You've  got  to 
be — well,  Angelica,  as  my  mother  used  to  say  she'd  been 
taught  in  the  old  country — you've  got  to  be  contented  to  stay 
in  the  station  where  it  has  pleased  God  to  put  you." 

"God  made  a  mistake,  then.  He's  put  me  in  the  wrong 
station,  and  I  won't  stay  in  it.  And  anyway,  mommer, 
haven't  you  ever  thought  ?  We're  not  staying — we're  going 
down,  down,  all  the  time.  You're  not  where  your  mother 
was,  and  I'm  not  where  you  used  to  be." 

"You've  got  more  brains  than  me,  and " 

"I'm  not  talking  about  brains.  You're  better  than  me; 

you  talk  better,  and  you've  got  nicer  ways.  You're " 

She  flushed  a  little.  "You're  more  like  a — lady  than  me." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  flushed,  too,  but  couldn't  deny  it.  She 
had  before  her  mind's  eye  the  descent  of  her  family — how 
she  had  sunk  below  her  parents'  level,  just  as  Angelica  had 
grown  up  coarser  and  more  ignorant  than  herself.  Unac 
countably  there  came  to  her  the  memory  of  another  after 
noon  when  she  had  been  scrubbing  stairs,  like  to-day,  but  in 
the  home  of  her  girlhood;  a  summer  afternoon,  long,  long 
ago.  She  remembered  that  she  had  complained  of  being 
tired  out,  and  her  mother  had  bidden  her  go  up-stairs  and 
lie  down.  And  she  remembered — how  well ! — stretching  her 
self  out  on  the  bed  in  the  neat,  darkened  room,  and  her 
stout,  kindly  mother  bringing  her  up  a  cup  of  tea. 

Her  thoughts  lingered  with  her  mother,  a  sober  Scotch 
woman,  living  out  her  life  in  the  shelter  of  her  own  home. 
A  nice  home,  too;  a  little  frame  house  in  Brooklyn,  com 
fortably  furnished,  modest,  but  not  without  dignity.  The 
suppers  there,  her  mother,  her  sandy-haired,  anxious  little 
father — assistant  to  a  grocer — and  herself,  sitting  at  the 


ANGELICA  15 

little  round  table  covered  with  a  red  checked  cloth,  with  the 
bland  light  of  the  lamp  on  their  faces — she  saw  it  painfully, 
bitterly  well;  and  her  father  asking  who  was  that  young 
chap  who  had  walked  home  from  the  chapel  with  her,  and 
her  mother  pretending  to  frown.  They  were  so  proud  and 
pleased  with  her  prettiness  and  briskness,  so  hopeful  for  her! 

For  just  a  moment  she  passionately  resented  her  role  of 
parent,  forever  giving  and  giving.  She  wanted  to  have  one 
person  on  earth  concerned  with  her  fatigue,  her  sorrow.  She 
sat  quite  still  before  her  little  supper,  lost  in  her  thought. 
Then  some  slight  movement  of  her  child's  brought  her  back 
to  life,  and  she  looked  up  with  her  little  sigh. 

Poor,  poor  Angelica!  Poor  lovely,  unhappy  thing,  work 
ing  in  a  factory!  Wouldn't  that  have  shocked  her  grand 
parents?  Wouldn't  they  have  been  shocked  at  Angelica, 
anyway — her  swagger,  her  language,  her  point  of  view! 
Her  heart  melted  with  pity  for  her  child. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Angelica,"  she  said.  "I  know  how 
hard  it  is  to  get  on  with  that  sort;  but,  deary,  what  better 
can  you  do?  One  job's  as  bad  as  another.  The  thing  is 
to  do  your  best  and  trust  in  Providence.  I'll  do  the  best 
I  can  to  make  things  happy  for  you  here  at  home.  We'll 
have  our  little  treats.  We've  always  been  happy  together, 
haven't  we?  It's  our  lot  in  life  to  have  to  work  hard  and 
get  very  little.  We've  got  to  put  up  with  it,  and  just  be  as 
happy  as  we  can." 

"No,  I'm  not  like  that.    I'm— no,  I  won't!" 

She  wasn't  able  to  express  her  rebellion,  her  vehement 
longings,  but  her  mother  understood  her  very  well. 

"I  was  just  like  you,"  she  said  mournfully;  "restless — 
always  after  something  new — anything  for  a  change.  I 
wanted — the  Lord  knows  what  I  wanted!" 

She  poured  out  another  cup  of  tea. 

"Eat  a  bit  more,"  she  said.  "You're  tired  and  worked 
up  like.  Yes!"  she  added.  "I  was  like  you,  Angelica;  and 
you  can  see  what  it  did  for  me.  I  was  a  nice-looking  girl 


16  ANGELICA 

in  those  days.  There  was  more  than  one  young  fellow  who 
wanted  to  marry  me;  but  I  wouldn't  have  any  of  them.  I 
thought  they  weren't  good  enough.  I  was  a  great  one  for 
reading  books,  and  my  head  was  full  of  nonsense. 

"Then  I  met  your  father.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man, 
Angelica.  You  can't  remember  him  when  he  was  well.  He 
was  a  big,  handsome  man,  a  barber.  My  folks  were  ter 
rible  set  against  it,  and  I  don't  wonder.  There  he  was,  an 
I-talian,  and  twenty  years  older  than  me,  and  nothing  in 
the  world  but  a  barber,  and  a  kind  of  a  Socialist.  He  was 
always  talking  about  killing  the  rich  people.  I  think  he'd 
have  been  willing  enough  to  do  something  like  that  with  his 
own  hands,  he  used  to  get  so  worked  up.  He  was  a  queer 
man,  Angelica.  And  yet,  for  all  his  talk  about  killing,  and 
the  awful  things  he'd  say  against  religion  and  churches,  why, 
he  wasn't  a  bad  man.  He  was  generous.  He'd  share  his 
last  penny  with  a  friend.  He  often  did;  we'd  have  to  go 
without  ourselves  if  one  of  his  precious  'comrades'  was  in 
a  tight  corner.  He  was  a  smart  man,  too.  He  spent  all  his 
spare  time  in  the  free  library,  reading;  but  that  never  gets 
you  anywhere,  Angelica.  He  had  no  knack  for  earning 
money,  and  he  never  could  save.  What's  more,  he  wasn't 
fond  of  work.  He'd  rather  read  or  talk.  He  could  talk  all 
night,  I  do  believe. 

"It  nearly  broke  my  mother's  heart  when  I  went  off  with 
Angelo.  My  father,  he  said  he'd  never  speak  to  me  again, 
nor  have  my  name  spoken  in  the  house,  on  account  of  my 
marrying  an  atheist,  you  see.  But  I  didn't  seem  to  care. 
There  was  something  about  him " 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  recalling  her  startling  foreign 
lover,  with  his  caressing  voice,  his  mandolin-playing,  his  anti 
clerical  passions,  and  the  brisk,  pretty  young  girl  who  had 
been  herself. 

"I  was  terrible  headstrong.  I  wouldn't  listen  to  any 
one.  I  would  have  him,  and  I  did.  Well,  I  was  punished 
for  my  folly  and  wickedness,  I  can  tell  you.  It's  always 


ANGELICA  17 

the  way  when  you  won't  listen  to  your  own  dear  parents 
and  those  that  are  wiser  than  yourself.  We  never  got  on. 
From  the  very  day  we  were  married — you  don't  know  what 
it's  like,  Angelica.  We  were  always  owing  money.  He 
wouldn't  hand  what  he  made  over  to  me,  for  me  to  man 
age.  I  never  knew  wrhere  we  stood.  All  of  a  sudden  he'd 
say,  'No  more  money !'  and  there  we'd  be,  without  a  penny. 
Wre  had  to  live  in  such  a  mean,  poor  way  that  I  lost  my 
health.  One  time  we  were  turned  out  of  our  rooms,  out 
into  the  street,  bag  and  baggage,  with  all  the  neighbors  look 
ing  on. 

"When  you  were  born,  I'd  hardly  so  much  as  a  blanket 
to  wrap  you  in.  I  never  had  a  bow  of  ribbon  or  a  thing 
to  dress  you  up  pretty,  like  the  other  little  babies.  And 
when  your  father  took  sick,  there  wasn't  even  a  fresh  sheet 
for  him.  'Take  him  off  to  the  hospital,'  says  the  doctor. 
'He  can't  be  looked  after  in  a  place  like  this.  He'll  die.' 
'Very  good,  I  die!'  says  he.  'But  I  die  home!'  Poor  man! 
There  he  lay,  so  hot  and  wretched,  and  you  in  a  clothes- 
basket  beside  him  fretting  all  day  and  all  night,  so  he 
couldn't  get  any  rest  and  peace.  We'd  only  the  one  room. 

"Well,  when  he  was  taken  sick,  of  course  there  was  no 
money  at  all  coming  in.  His  precious  'comrades'  never  came 
near  him,  least  of  all  the  ones  that  owed  him  money;  so  I 
began  going  out  by  the  day,  and  I  left  an  old  I-talian  woman 
to  take  care  of  you  and  him.  Every  morning,  when  I'd 
go  out,  I'd  feel  sure  and  certain  neither  of  you'd  be  alive 
and  safe  when  I  got  back.  Both  of  you  sick,  and  no  good 
food  or  proper  care !  And  I'd  think  of  her  setting  the 
place  on  fire,  or  leaving  the  gas  turned  on.  Then  I'd  come 
home,  tired  as  a  dog,  and  not  a  soul  to  speak  to :  you  a  tiny 
little  baby  crying  in  your  basket,  and  your  poor  father  moan 
ing  in  his  bed ;  everything  dirty  and  upset.  You  can't  think 
what  it  was  like. 

"I'm  not  blaming  your  poor  father,  Angelica.  I'm  only 
telling  you  this  to  show  you  how  those  high-flown  notions — 


18  ANGELICA 

where  they'll  lead  you.  In  this  world,  you've  got  to  be  sen 
sible,  and  not  follow  your  own  notions." 

Not  follow  romance  was  what  she  meant,  and  what  An 
gelica  understood ;  for  wasn't  that  what  she  had  done  ?  And 
had  won  it,  to  see  it  perish  in  a  long  agony,  as  romance  must 
always  perish,  whether  won  or  lost.  She  wanted  so  passion 
ately  to  make  it  all  clear  to  her  child,  to  tell  her  how  she 
had  seen  the  hard,  the  dull,  the  greedy,  attain  their  heart's 
desire;  but  the  romantic,  the  generous,  never.  She  wanted 
to  tell  her  how  hideous  is  the  death  of  illusion,  how  merciless 
is  the  world.  How  her  splendid  hero,  black-eyed  Angelo 
with  the  flashing  smile,  had  fallen  from  splendour — had,  so 
to  speak,  dwindled  into  a  miserable  invalid,  duped  by  his 
friends,  and  deprived  of  all  courage  by  the  knowledge  of 
their  treachery.  How  she  had  seen  her  youth  go  by  un 
noticed,  unappreciated,  in  that  struggle  for  bread;  of  the 
loneliness  and  the  frightful  indignities  of  poverty. 

"It  was  a  mistake,"  she  said.  "The  whole  thing  was  a 
big  mistake!" 

"I  don't, know,"  said  Angelica.  "Maybe  you  wouldn't 
have  been  any  happier  with  a  different  man." 

"I'd  certainly  have  been  happier  with  enough  to  eat  If 
I'd  listened  to  my  parents,  I'd  taken  a  sober,  hard-work- 
ing " 

"Bah!"  cried  Angelica,  with  the  sudden  fierceness  that  al 
ways  startled  her  mother.  "You  married  the  man  you 
wanted,  didn't  you?  He  didn't  make  any  money,  so  you 
were  poor.  Well,  what  of  it  ?  You've — anyway  you've  got 
a  memory  of  him,  to  look  back  at,  haven't  you?" 

And  her  mother  hadn't  the  heart  to  tell  her  the  truth — that 
even  in  memory  the  ardent,  enchanting  lover  was  supplanted 
by  the  querulous  and  unshaven  sufferer  who  lay  dying  for 
months  and  months  of  some  disease  which  they  didn't  under 
stand,  and  which  the  busy  doctor  didn't  trouble  to  explain  to 
them. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  sensible,  Angelica,"  she  said. 


ANGELICA  19 

She  saw  well  enough  that  her  story  had  made  no  sort 
of  impression  upon  her  child.  Angelica  was  still  so  young 
that  what  happened  to  other  people  and  what  happened  to 
her  had  no  connection  in  her  mind.  She  fancied  that  all  her 
experiences,  as  well  as  all  her  ideas,  were  unique.  Her 
mother  could  read  in  her  face  that  she  was  thinking  now, 
not  of  her  mother's  past,  but  of  her  own  future. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  sensible,"  she  said  again.  "Try  to  learn 
to  be  satisfied  with  your  lot  in  life.  That's  how  all  my 
troubles  began — being  discontented.  Try  to  be  satisfied." 

"No,  I  shan't,"  said  her  rebellious  child.  "Listen,  mom- 
mer!" 

"Well?" 

"I  was  thinking.  I  don't  know — but  I  thought — maybe 
there's  something  in  this." 

She  handed  her  mother  a  scrap  torn  from  a  newspaper. 

CHEERFUL  young  lady  wanted  as  companion  for  invalid;  ex 
perience  unnecessary.  Apply  Thursday  morning  to  Mrs.  Russell, 
Buena  Vista,  Baycliff,  Westchester. 

"But,  deary,  don't  you  see?"  cried  her  mother,  startled. 
"You  don't  mean  that  you'd  try  for  that?" 

"Why  not,  mother?"  demanded  Angelica,  flushing. 

"But,  deary,  don't  you  see?  It's — they'll — they  wouldn't 
want  a  girl  like  you." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  again,  still  more  fiercely. 

But  her  mother  wouldn't  say  it.  Anyway,  she  knew  that 
Angelica  understood  her  meaning  perfectly. 

"A  waste  of  carfare,"  she  said.  "All  that  money — there's 
no  sense  at  all  in  your  going.  There'll  be  dozens  after  the 
place — girls  that — that'll  suit  better." 

Her  object  was  to  spare  her  child  the  humiliation  she  fore 
saw  for  her — a  factory  girl,  a  bold-eyed,  ignorant  young 
thing  in  the  cheapest  sort  of  clothes,  offering  herself  to  a 
lady  as  a  companion!  Herself  brought  up  in  a  quite  differ- 


20  ANGELICA 

ent  way,  accustomed  to  recognizing,  without  snobbery  and 
without  resentment,  that  there  were  in  the  world  groups  of 
people  better  and  groups  worse  than  her  own  sort,  she  could 
not  comprehend  Angelica's  attitude.  Angelica  envied  with 
out  admiring.  In  fact,  she  despised  "rich  people"  almost  as 
much  as  her  father  had,  but  her  ambition  in  life  was  to  be 
one  of  them. 

"I'll  risk  the  carfare,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  try,  any 
way.  You  know,  mommer,  maybe  they're  sick  of  those  silly 
little  dolls — 'ladies' — especially  if  it's  an  invalid.  They 
said  'cheerful,'  you  know." 

"All  ladies  aren't  silly  dolls,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  dis 
pleased.  "And  I  don't  know  as  you're  so  cheerful,  An 
gelica." 

"I  could  be,  if  I  wanted.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  try.  I'll 
just  take  the  fare.  I'll  give  you  all  the  rest,  mommer." 

She  took  out  a  shabby  little  purse,  counted  her  money,  put 
some  back,  and  laid  the  rest  on  the  tub  tops.  Such  a  pitiful 
sum!  It  hurt  her  mother. 

"It's  all  yours,"  she  said.  "You've  worked  for  it.  Do  as 

you  please.  If  you  really  want  to  go I'm  sure  I  hope 

you'll  get  the  place." 

After  a  moment  she  added : 

"I  hope  you  know,  Angie,  that  I  want  you  to  have  the 
best — the  very  best  there  is.  I  think  you  deserve  it.  Only, 
deary,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  disappointed;  and  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  help  being.  I  want  you  to  know,  deary, 
that  Fm- 

She  couldn't  think  of  a  word.  She  stood  anxiously  frown 
ing,  looking  at  the  ground  for  a  minute. 

"I'm  always — on  your  side,"  she  ended. 

Angelica  sprang  up  from  the  table  and  seized  her  mother 
in  a  fierce  embrace. 

"Mamma  mia!"  she  whispered,  as  her  father  had  taught 
her,  long  ago. 


ANGELICA  21 

Her  mother  was  curiously  thrilled  and  touched.  She 
looked  up  with  brimming  eyes  at  the  dark  and  foreign  face 
bending  above  her. 

"What's  that  he  used  to  say — feeliar,  or  something?"  she 
murmured,  embarrassed.  "You're  a  good  girl,  Angelica.  I 
hope  you'll  be  lucky!" 


CHAPTER  TWO 


In  spite  of  an  air  of  complete  self-assurance,  Angelica 
was  very  nervous  the  next  morning.  She  lingered  over  her 
breakfast  with  a  sort  of  languor  well-known  to  her  mother, 
for  wasn't  that,  hadn't  that  always  been,  her  air  of  despera 
tion  and  defiance?  She  saw  that  Angelica  had  no  idea  of 
changing  her  mind,  and  also  that,  upon  thinking  it  over,  she 
had  realized  to  some  extent  how  daring  was  her  project, 
and  was  frightened. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  had  to  put  in  a  day  washing  for  one  of  the 
tenants,  and  was  in  a  hurry.  She  stooped  over  the  table  to 
print  on  a  piece  of  wrapping-paper  the  usual  note  to  be 
pinned  on  her  door: 

JANITRESS  WILL  BE  FOUND  IN  APT.  12 

Then,  straightening  up,  she  looked  anxiously  at  her  child. 

"Well,  deary!  If  you've  made  up  your  mind — good  luck 
to  you!" 

Angelica  smiled  faintly.  When  the  door  had  closed  after 
her  mother,  she  rose  herself  and  went  into  the  black  little 
bedroom,  where  a  small  jet  of  gas  showed  her  a  shadowy 
face  in  a  broken  mirror.  She  put  on  her  hat,  very  carefully, 
and  her  jacket,  but  lingered  still;  until  ringing  across  the 
cement  floor  of  the  cellar  came  a  heavy  and  familiar  step — 
Oscar,  the  furnace  man,  going  out  for  his  morning  beer. 
That  meant  nine  o'clock ;  she  had  to  go ! 

Once  in  the  street,  her  self-confidence  returned.  She  was 
always  best  in  a  crowd,  in  any  position  where  she  had  to 

22 


ANGELICA  23 

fight  her  way.  The  glances  that  followed  her  warmed  her 
heiart,  assured  her  of  her  alluring  and  devilish  charm. 
She  liked  it  all — liked  to  turn  with  terrible  scorn  upon  any 
one  who  ventured  to  jostle  her,  like  to  disconcert  with  a 
long,  insolent  stare  any  man  who  might  presume  to  look 
too  long  at  her. 

She  was  a  child  of  the  streets ;  she  loved  them  as  an  Arab 
loves  the  desert,  or  a  sailor  the  sea.  She  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  streets.  There,  in  rough  games,  she  had  learned 
to  hold  her  own;  there,  running  the  gauntlet  of  a  mob  of 
jeering  boys,  she  had  learned  to  endure  valiantly,  without 
longing  for  sympathy.  Her  mother  had  always  tried  her 
best  to  keep  the  child  off  the  streets,  but  could  not.  On  her 
way  home  from  school,  whenever  she  was  sent  on  an  errand, 
Angelica  would  seize  the  chance  to  linger  in  that  violent 
and  exciting  life.  And  then,  later,  when  she  was  a  young 
girl,  came  those  curious  sidewalk  flirtations,  so  hostile  in 
mood,  so  brutally  chaste.  She  wouldn't  stand  any  nonsense ! 

After  all,  her  life  within  the  house  with  her  mother  was 
nothing,  only  interludes  of  rest  in  her  vehement  existence. 
It  was  out  there,  in  the  streets,  that  she  had  become  Angelica. 

She  had  never  yet  traveled  by  railway,  though  she  had 
often  enough  gone  to  the  Grand  Central  Terminal  with  girl 
friends  and  pretended,  rather  pitifully,  to  be  going  on  a 
journey.  They  would  stand  near  the  gateway  of  a 
train,  and  say  good-by,  and  perhaps  walk  forward  a  few 
steps  with  the  crowd.  She  was  tremendously  proud  really 
to  be  going  off  now. 

In  the  tunnel  she  took  the  opportunity  to  study  her  reflec 
tion  in  the  darkened  window,  and  it  pleased  and  encouraged 
her — the  great,  shadowy  eyes,  the  pallor  of  her  face,  the 
big  hat  framing  it.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  looked  ro 
mantic,  and  not  at  all  what  she  was.  She  began  to  imagine 
that  she  might  hoodwink  this  Mrs.  Russell,  that  she  might 
pass  muster  even  among  ladies. 


24  ANGELICA 

ii 

She  never  forgot  her  first  sight  of  that  house,  and  never 
afterward  did  it  really  look  otherwise  to  her.  In  rain,  in 
snow,  in  summer  or  winter,  it  was  always  to  her  as  she  had 
first  seen  it  on  that  breezy  spring  morning. 

It  was  a  big  stone  house  on  a  wide,  sunny  hill,  and  it  had 
somehow  a  festive  air,  with  its  striped  awnings,  the  white 
curtains  fluttering  at  open  windows,  and  a  flag  flying  on  a 
pole  on  the  summit  of  the  hill.  It  put  her  in  mind  of  a 
picture  she  had  seen  in  an  old  school  copy  of  "Ivanhoe," 
of  a  medieval  castle  on  the  day  of  a  tournament. 

She  was  profoundly  impressed.  The  complacency  she  had 
felt  on  the  train  melted  away,  and  she  began  to  realize  how 
preposterous  her  idea  was.  She  entered  the  iron  gate  and 
began  walking  up  the  long  gravel  path  which  led  up  the 
hill  to  the  house,  a  solitary  figure,  with  bare,  sunny  lawns 
on  either  side  of  her,  behind  her  the  highroad  where  motor 
cars  were  spinning  past,  before  her  the  august,  the  unknown 
house.  Altogether  an  alien  world  where  she  felt  mean  and 
pitiful  in  her  cheap  clothes,  her  worn,  shapeless  boots. 

"I  look  like  a  factory  girl,"  she  reflected  bitterly.  "Any 
one  would  know.  Perhaps  they  won't  even  let  me  in." 

The  maid  who  opened  the  door  was  certainly  not  encour 
aging.  She  looked  Angelica  up  and  down. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Mrs.  Russell  '11  see  any  more  of 
you,"  she  said.  "Such  a  crowd  all  morning!  Come  in, 
though." 

Angelica  followed  her  into  a  large  hall  with  a  polished 
floor,  where  upon  chairs  ranged  along  the  wall  sat  a  row 
of  women,  beginning  in  darkness  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
hall,  and  ending  in  sunshine  near  the  door,  where  Angelica 
took  her  seat. 

She  sat  for  some  minutes  in  a  frozen  quiet,  until  her  awe 
of  the  great  house  and  the  severe  servant  and  the  unknown 


ANGELICA  25 

women  ebbed  away,  and  her  natural  curiosity  came  flowing 
back.  Then  she  turned  her  head  a  little  and  saw  them  all, 
the  whole  row,  staring  at  her.  Her  spine  stiffened  instinc 
tively,  and  she  began  a  deliberate  survey  of  her  rivals. 

The  first  two  she  couldn't  see,  because  they  sat  under 
the  stairs  in  utter  darkness.  Then  came  a  portly  old  lady 
with  an  immense  alligator-skin  bag;  then  a  very  composed, 
handsome  woman  in  black.  She  got  no  further,  for  the 
servant  came  hurrying  back  across  the  slippery  floor,  to  let 
in  still  another  applicant. 

Angelica  now  joined  with  the  others  in  staring  at  this 
new  one — a  blonde,  superior  young  person,  tightly  corseted. 
She  sat  down  next  to  Angelica,  and  once  more  the  line  com 
posed  itself  to  waiting.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by; 
then  the  old  lady  with  the  alligator  bag  began  whispering 
to  her  neighbor  in  the  dark,  and  that  started  a  sort  of  gen 
eral  conversation  in  whispers.  The  information  was  passed 
along  the  line  that  "she" — the  first  one,  under  the  stairs — 
had  been  there  two  hours. 

"I  came  here  before  about  a  month  ago,"  whispered  the 
one  before  Angelica.  "She  advertised,  but  she  changed  her 
mind  and  sent  us  all  away." 

Angelica  was  surprised  at  the  timidity  of  this  person  who 
was  so  obviously  a  lady,  if  a  rather  faded  one.  It  gave  her 
courage.  Being  a  lady  wasn't  the  whole  thing,  then,  after 
all.  She  was  on  the  point  of  answering,  when  once  more  the 
parlour  maid  hurried  past,  to  admit  an  extraordinary  object. 

She  was  a  tall,  bony  woman  of  perhaps  fifty,  dressed  in 
a  checked  coat  and  riding-breeches,  with  a  derby  hat  jammed 
down  over  her  face  and  a  confusion  of  red  hair  streaming 
from  under  it.  As  she  crossed  the  hall,  the  last  pin  seemed 
to  give  way,  and  it  all  fell  down  about  her  shoulders.  She 
made  a  helpless  sort  of  gesture  to  put  it  right,  found  she 
couldn't,  and  went  on,  with  a  long  stride.  Her  face  was 
overshadowed  by  her  hat,  but  there  were  visible  a  sharp 


26  ANGELICA 

nose  and  a  pointed  chin.  Her  voice  was  unexpectedly  soft 
and  agreeable. 

"Good  morning!"  she  said.    "Who's  first?" 

The  young  blonde  jumped  up. 

"I,  please!"  she  said. 

They  were  all  struck  dumb  for  a  minute;  then  Angelica 
said  boldly: 

"You're  not!" 

The  lady  in  breeches  turned  her  head  briskly. 

"Never  mind!"  she  said  pleasantly.  "I'll  see  you  first 
anyway.  You'll  each  have  your  turn;  don't  worry!" 

The  young  woman  followed  her  into  a  room  across  the 
hall,  and  the  door  was  closed. 

"Well,  I  never!"  cried  a  voice  from  the  darkness. 

It  was  the  woman  who  had  waited  two  hours.  An  in 
dignant  and  subdued  chorus  began,  which  ended  only  when 
the  blond  young  lady  reappeared,  smiling  falsely,  and  walked 
past  them  all  to  the  front  door.  She  had  failure  written 
upon  her  face;  and  she  knew  it,  and  was  very  anxious  to 
be  gone.  But  the  front  door  would  not  open;  she  was 
obliged  to  stand  there,  fumbling  with  the  lock,  raked  by  the 
eyes  of  those  whom  she  had  defrauded. 

"She  didn't  stay  long !"  observed  the  old  lady.  "Well,  I 
didn't  think  she'd  suit." 

"Of  course  not!"  said  another. 

"Such  tricks  never  bring  any  good  luck,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "After  all,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  justice  in  this 
world,  and  no " 

The  red-haired  lady  returned  and  opened  the  front  door. 

"Now  then !"  she  said,  beckoning  to  Angelica. 

Angelica  shook  her  head. 

"No — I'm  the  last,"  she  replied. 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  the  order.     Please  come  in." 

So  Angelica  followed  her  into  a  dark  little  paneled  room, 
where  an  orange-shaded  lamp  glowed  from  the  top  of  a 
piano,  showing  carved  chairs,  a  soft,  dull  rug,  a  harp,  and  a 


ANGELICA  27 

suit  of  armour  that  glistened  from  a  corner.  It  seemed  an 
enchanted  room,  like  a  scene  from  a  play,  or  a  dream. 
Angelica  really  didn't  worry  now  about  getting  the  position; 
it  was  worth  while  having  come,  just  to  have  got  inside  of 
this  house  and  this  room. 

The  extraordinary  lady  sat  down  upon  a  divan  and 
crossed  her  long  legs.  She  had  a  pencil  in  her  hand,  and  a 
little  notebook,  and  she  was  most  businesslike. 

"Your  name?"  she  inquired. 

"Angelica  Kennedy." 

It  wasn't  really  Angelica's  name;  Kennedy  was  her 
mother's  name,  but  they  had  both  agreed  that  Donallotti 
was  an  impossible  and  unseemly  patronymic,  and  might 
cause  them  to  be  taken  for  foreigners. 

"Your  age?" 

"Nineteen." 

Angelica  felt  terribly  at  a  disadvantage,  standing  there 
to  be  questioned.  She  could  hear  her  own  voice,  rpther 
hoarse,  and  her  vulgar  accent.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
ungloved,  of  being  awkward  and  despised.  She  felt  herself 
lost,  she  was  in  despair,  she  longed  to  run  away  and  be  done 
with  this  misery;  but  the  lady  went  on  pleasantly. 

"Your  address?" 

Her  heart  sank  still  lower  as  she  saw  written  down  the 
obscure  and  sordid  street. 

"Could  you  give  me  any  social  references?" 

That  finished  her. 

"No!"  she  said  curtly. 

"Oh!  Can't  you?"  said  the  nice  voice,  disappointed. 
"What  about  experience,  then?  What  have  you  done?" 

"You  said  experience  was  unnecessary." 

"Yes,  I  know ;  but  can't  you  give  me  some  sort  of  idea, 
you  know — something  about  yourself?" 

Angelica  was  obstinately  silent. 

"What  made  you  come?  What  did  you  think  your  quali 
fications  were?"  the  other  asked,  less  pleasantly. 


28  ANGELICA 

"I  could  be  useful,"  said  Angelica  sullenly.  "I  can  sew 
— trim  hats — I  worked  with  a  milliner  once.  Whatever  else 
you  wanted  I  could  learn,  and  I  wouldn't  expect  much  pay 
while  I  was  learning." 

The  lady  interrupted  her. 

"How  much  would  you  expect?"  she  asked,  with  sudden 
interest. 

"I  don't  care.  Just  enough  to  help — mother.  And  I'm 
real  quick  to  learn.  I  could " 

"There  isn't  anything  to  learn,  my  dear,"  said  the  red- 
haired  one.  With  an  astounding  change  of  manner,  she 
suddenly  became  confidential  and  garrulous.  "You  see,  it's 
for  my  daughter-in-law,  Mrs.  Geraldine.  She  must  have 
some  one  with  her.  The  doctor  says  she's  not  to  be  left 
alone.  She's  been  through  a  dreadful  experience.  She  lost 
her  sweet  little  baby  six  weeks  ago.  Isn't  that  dreadful?" 

Angelica  agreed  briefly  that  it  was. 

"Well,  I  want  some  one  just  to  be  about  with  her,  you 
know.  No  work;  it's  really  an  ideal  life.  I  said  to  my  hus 
band  I'd  absolutely  love  to  do  it  myself,  if  I  had  the  time. 
She's  the  dearest  soul — a  little  depressed  now,  naturally. 
How  much  would  you  expect?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  give?" 

"You  see,  it  has  to  come  out  of  my  own  pocket.  I'm 
doing  it  for  her,  to  make  her  happy.  I'll  pay,  but  she'll 
have  the  benefit;  and  of  course  I'm  not  able  to — I'll  give 
you  twenty  dollars." 

"A  week?" 

"A  month." 

Angelica  was  quiet  for  a  moment.  It  was  perfectly  ap 
parent  to  her  that  cheapness  was  her  only  asset;  that  if 
she  didn't  come  cheap  and  very  cheap,  she  wouldn't  be  con 
sidered.  She  reflected,  and  grew  more  and  more  convinced 
that  here  was  a  stepping-stone. 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "That's  not  much  pay,  but  I'll 
take  it." 


ANGELICA  29 

"And  what  about  references  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Russell. 

This  was  an  attempt  to  regain  a  lost  advantage.  If  she 
was  getting  Angelica  cheap,  she  must  make  her  feel  and  see 
that  she  was  cheap. 

"I  haven't  any." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  have  SOME!"  said  Mrs.  Russell. 

She  was  determined  that  Angelica  should  give  her  refer 
ences,  even  if  they  were  obviously  false  ones.  She  knew 
she  would  be  questioned  in  regard  to  this,  and  she  preferred 
to  say  that  she  had  been  deceived.  That  would  absolve 
her  from  blame.  It  would  even  add  to  her  merit,  showing 
her  to  be  trusting  and  kindly. 

"The  rector  of  your  church,  perhaps?"  she  suggested. 

"Haven't  any  church." 

"Didn't  you  say  that  you'd  worked  for  a  milliner?" 
Wouldn't  she " 

"Not  on  your  life!  My  Lord!  I  don't  know  what  she 
wouldn't  say  about  me !  She  hated  the  sight  of  me.  Jealous ! 
No,  there's  no  one;  but  if  you  want  to  know  more  about 
me,  you  could  go  and  see  my  mother." 

"I  might  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Russell  slowly.  It  was  a 
good  idea;  she  would  certainly  be  praised  for  going  to  all 
this  trouble  in  investigating  the  character  of  Polly's  com 
panion.  "Yes,  I  will.  I'll  go  down  to  the  city  and  fetch  you 
to-morrow  morning.  And  be  ready  for  me  early,  won't  you  ? 
— for  I  have  so  very  little  time."  She  went  to  the  door,  fol 
lowed  by  Angelica ;  then  out  into  the  hall,  where  the  patient 
row  still  sat,  waiting  for  the  turns  she  had  promised  them. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  told  them,  with  an  affable  smile,  "but 
the  place  is  taken.  Good  morning!" 

They  all  stared  at  her  incredulously  for  a  moment.  Then, 
as  she  held  open  the  front  door,  they  got  up,  surged  out 
together,  and  went  down  the  hill  in  a  straggling  parade,  all 
so  shabby  in  the  sunlight.  The  one  who  had  been  waiting 
so  very  long,  in  the  dark  under  the  stairs — a  wan  little  thing 
in  a  befeathered  hat — turned  upon  Angelica  a  dreadful  look. 


CHAPTER  THREE 


Angelica  was  ready  by  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
with  a  bag  in  which  was  packed  every  decent  thing  she 
owned.  The  people  in  the  flat  above  had  been  astounded 
by  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's  sewing-machine  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  for  she  and  her  child  had  sat  up 
nearly  all  night,  making  ready.  It  was  a  melancholy,  a 
heart-breaking  work  for  the  poor  mother.  She  wasn't  going 
away.  She  had  no  adventure  to  excite  her,  no  ambition, 
no  hope,  nothing  but  the  bitter  certainty  of  loneliness  and 
poverty.  She  tried  to  be — not  cheerful,  for  that  she  never 
was,  but  calm  and  reasonable,  while  all  the  time  she  had 
before  her  the  spectre  of  the  evening  when  she  would  come 
home  to  empty  rooms,  to  eat  her  supper  alone.  A  groan 
escaped  her,  which  she  tried  to  turn  into  a  sigh. 

"It's  the  very,  very  worst  that  can  happen  to  any  one  in 
this  wide  world,"  she  thought;  "to  be  left  all  alone,  and 
getting  old!" 

She  hadn't  been  able  to  keep  her  eyes  from  Angelica,  sit 
ting  bent  over  a  blouse  she  was  finishing,  with  her  hair, 
just  washed,  hanging  down  her  back,  wet,  straight,  and 
heavy,  drying  about  her  face  in  a  sort  of  mist  of  feathery 
tendrils. 

Angelica  was  glad,  she  was  delighted  to  go.  She  certainly 
loved  her  mother,  but  a  separation  of  a  week,  a  month,  a 
year,  didn't  trouble  her,  didn't  cause  her  a  pang.  She  knew 
in  theory  that  life  is  terribly  uncertain,  but  she  didn't  really 
believe  it.  She  felt  sure  that  no  matter  where  she  went,  or 
how  long  she  stayed,  her  mother  would  be  there  at  home, 
absolutely  unchanged. 

30 


ANGELICA  31 

She  was  the  child  who  has  never  been  burnt,  sitting  be 
fore  the  glowing  fire.  Having  as  yet  never  lost  anything, 
she  didn't  value  anything.  In  that  enticing  future  toward 
which  she  looked,  she  expected  to  live  once  more  with  her 
mother.  In  the  meantime  it  didn't  matter. 

"Well !"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "I'll  have  no  one  to  go  to 
the  movies  with  now." 

''You  wait !"  said  Angelica.  "One  of  these  days  I'll  take 
you  to  a  real  show,  mommer !" 

Already  she  saw  herself  the  benefactor.  She  had  for 
gotten,  or  perhaps  didn't  even  know,  how  limitlessly  she 
had  received. 

They  went  to  bed  in  the  early  morning,  and  Angelica 
slept,  while  her  weary  mother  lay  awake  at  her  side  in  the 
narrow  bed  they  shared.  The  room  was  too  dark  for  her 
to  see  anything,  but  she  could  hear  the  breathing  of  her 
dear  child,  a'nd  with  a  furtive  hand  feel  that  soft,  slippery 
hair,  still  fresh  and  redolent  of  white  soap. 

"I've  got  to  expect  it!"  she  told  herself  over  and  over. 
"I've  got  to  expect  it!  They  all  go,  for  one  reason  or  an 
other.  We've  got  to  make  up  our  minds  to  lose  everything 
in  this  world." 

She  got  up  again  at  six,  and  set  to  work  cleaning  her 
little  flat  from  end  to  end,  so  that  it  should  be  ready  for 
Mrs.  Russell's  inspection.  Angelica  insisted  upon  helping 
her. 

"Oh,  mommer,  for  Gawd's  sake!  I  won't  get  tired,  and 
I  won't  get  dirty.  She  won't  come  before  ten,  anyway — 
prob'ly  later.  I  bet  she  has  her  breakfast  in  bed!" 

"She  must  be  a  queer  one,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  "from 
what  you  tell  me." 

"A  freak!  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her — with  pants 
on  and  her  hair  coming  down  her  back.  And  there's  some 
thing  mean  about  her,  too.  I  don't  like  her — telling  them 
all  they'd  get  their  turns,  and  then  putting  them  out,  that 
way.  And  look  at  what  she's  paying  me!" 


32  ANGELICA 

"Angle,  if  you're  going  to  work  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy  gravely,  "you'd  better  hold  your  tongue  about  her. 
If  you  can  take  her  money " 

"I  only  wish  I  had  a  chance  to  take  a  little  more  of  it! 
I  don't  see  how  you'll  get  along,  mommer." 

"Oh,  I'll  manage,"  said  her  mother. 

She  might  have  mentioned  that  she  had  supported  her 
child  for  many,  many  years,  and  that  even  after  Angelica 
had  become  a  wage-earner  she  had  taken  very  little  of  the 
girl's  money — only  what  had  to  be  used  to  conform  to 
Angie's  ever  more  and  more  exacting  standards. 


II 

At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Russell  hadn't  come  yet,  and  Mrs. 
Kennedy  couldn't  wait  any  longer.  She  was  obliged  to  go 
out  and  scrub  the  halls.  She  had  her  best  black  silk  blouse 
on,  too,  and  she  was  dreadfully  nervous  about  splashing. 
Every  half -hour  or  so  she  ran  down-stairs  to  her  child,  to 
see  if  the  lady  hadn't  come  yet,  and  found  Angelica  scorn 
fully  waiting,  reading  a  magazine. 

At  one  o'clock  they  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  to  a  hurried 
meal  of  tea  and  bread,  ready  to  hide  all  traces  of  it  at  the 
first  sound  of  the  door-bell. 

"I  promised  Mrs.  Schell  I'd  do  her  kitchen  floor  this  after 
noon,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  with  an  anxious  frown.  "What 
do  you  want  me  to  do  about  it,  Angie  ?" 

"Go  ahead!    If  she  comes,  I'll  run  up  and  get  you." 

She  spent  a  miserable  afternoon.  She  scrubbed  with 
conscientious  vigour,  but  with  an  absent  mind.  She  thought 
the  same  thoughts  over  and'  over — first,  how  disappointed 
Angie  would  be  if  the  lady  never  came;  then  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  she  wasn't  going  to  lose  her. 

"Maybe  we'll  have  supper  together  again  this  very  night!" 
she  would  think  hopefully. 


ANGELICA  33 

Upon  the  heels  of  her  hope  came  the  certainty  that  if 
Angelica  didn't  go  away  now,  she  would  later.  It  was  sure 
to  come;  no  chance  whatever  that  such  a  girl  would  stop 
there,  underground,  with  her. 

When  she  came  down  again  for  the  last  time,  at  six 
o'clock,  Angelica  was  in  the  little  parlour,  now  black  as  the 
pit,  and  she  was  so  very  still  that  her  mother  felt  disturbed. 
She  was  afraid  that  the  poor,  proud  thing  was  grieving, 
and  she  went  in  to  her,  noiseless  in  her  thin  old  shoes ;  but 
when  she  had  lighted  the  lamp,  she  saw  that  Angelica  was 
sleeping,  stretched  out  limp  and  childish  in  the  big  rocking- 
chair. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  hurried  away  breathlessly  to  the  grocer's, 
to  buy  a  little  treat ;  for  weren't  they  going  to  have  supper 
together  again  after  all? 


in 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Russell  came.  Finding 
the  door  unlocked,  she  walked  in  without  permission,  as  one 
is  surely  privileged  to  do  in  so  mean  a  home.  They  were 
in  the  kitchen,  with  the  water  running  in  the  sink,  and  they 
didn't  hear  her  come  down  the  hall,  didn't  know  that  she 
was  standing  in  the  door,  watching  them. 

"Well,  are  you  ready?"  she  demanded. 

They  both  turned  and  regarded  her  with  just  the  same 
look — a  fine  indignation,  a  stern  surprise — Mrs.  Kennedy 
with  both  hands  plunged  in  the  dish-pan,  Angelica  holding 
a  dish  which  she  was  wiping.  They  resented  the  intrusion, 
and  they  showed  it. 

"Yes,  I'm  ready,"  said  Angelica  slowly. 

She  stood  regarding  Mrs.  Russell  with  a  steady,  level 
gaze,  not  devoid  of  insolence,  for  she  knew  no  other  way 
to  meet  the  careless  condescension  of  that  lady. 

Although  she  was  young  and  lovely,  and  in  spite  of  Mrs. 


34  ANGELICA 

Russell's  slovenliness  and  egotism,  Angelica  felt  her  own 
inferiority.  She  hadn't  what  Mrs.  Russell  had — Mrs.  Rus 
sell  standing  there  in  a  dreadful  green  tweed  suit,  with  a 
mannish  sort  of  felt  hat  on  her  wild  red  hair,  with  her  great 
flat  feet  and  her  mechanical  smile.  That  manner,  and  above 
all,  that  voice,  clear,  cool,  soft!  Quite  unconsciously, 
Angelica  had  a  profound  Latin  admiration  for  sangfroid. 
She  couldn't  be  coolly  self-possessed;  couldn't  be  anything 
more  or  less  than  rude. 

"Get  your  things  on,  then,  won't  you  please?"  said  Mrs. 
Russell. 

Angelica  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  she  would  first 
finish  the  task  in  hand,  but  her  mother  pushed  her  gently 
away. 

"Go  along!"  she  said. 

There  was  but  one  course  open  to  a  proud  soul.  It  was 
essential  to  keep  Mrs.  Russell  waiting  as  long  as  possible, 
and  that  Angelica  did.  She  could  hear  voices  from  the 
parlour — her  mother's,  subdued  and  monotonous,  and  Mrs. 
Russell's,  light,  gay,  and  sweet.  While  she  dawdled  before 
the  mirror  there  came  a  new  voice,  shouting  reproachfully 
through  the  open  front  door : 

"Now  then,  Mrs.  Russell!    It's  late!" 

Angelica  looked  out  and  saw  in  their  little  hall  a  chauffeur 
in  livery.  Mrs.  Russell  was  also  looking  out. 

"Very  well,  Courtland,"  she  said  soothingly.  "Come  in 
and  get  the  young  lady's  luggage.  Where  is  it,  please?" 

"Here !"  said  Angelica,  pointing  to  a  little  pasteboard  suit 
case,  painted  to  look  like  leather. 

The  chauffeur  regarded  it  in  silence  for  a  minute;  then 
he  picked  it  up  disdainfully,  swung  it  in  the  air  to  emphasize 
its  lightness,  and  went  out. 

"Don't  be  all  night !"  he  called  back. 

His  effrontery  was  amazing  to  Mrs.  Kennedy.  She 
couldn't  help  but  feel  suspicious  of  a  lady  whose  servants 
spoke  to  her  so  disrespectfully. 


ANGELICA  35 

Mrs.  Russell,  instead  of  being  angry,  seemed  alarmed. 

"Make  haste,  please !"  she  said.    "It's  late." 

She  beckoned  to  Angelica,  who  followed  at  her  heels. 
They  went  out,  and  the  front  door  closed  after  them. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  sank  into  the  rocking-chair  and  put  her 
head  down  on  her  folded  arms,  on  the  table.  She  had  an 
odd  and  horrible  sensation,  such  as  a  fast-walking  man 
might  feel  at  coming  suddenly  up  against  a  high  wall.  She 
was  at  the  end — the  end  of  something.  She  was  like  a 
tired,  mercilessly  driven  horse  whose  rider  has  jumped 
off.  Those  twenty  years  of  drudgery,  the  struggle  to  "keep 
up  a  home,"  the  debts  so  painfully  met,  the  persecutions 
and  indignities  endured,  all  for  that  girl  who  had  gone  off 
with  only  a  smile  over  her  shoulder !  She  groaned — a  sound 
which  startled  even  herself.  It  was  all  so  wasted,  so  utterly 
done  with  now! 

Then  like  a  whirlwind  came  Angelica  back  again,  seized 
the  little  woman  in  her  arms,  and  strained  her  against  her 
thin  body. 

"Mommer!"  she  cried  with  a  sob.  "Dear,  dear  darling 
old  mommer!  I  had  to  come — just  to  say  good-by  alone. 
Don't  be  sad,  deary  mommer,  please!  It's  only  for  a  little 
while,  you  know!" 

"No!"  said  her  mother's  heart.  "You  will  never  come 
back.  I  have  lost  you!" 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


"It  can't  be  the  same  night!"  said  Angelica  to  herself. 
"It  can't  be  only  an  hour  ago  that  I  was  in  the  kitchen  at 
home!" 

For  here  she  was  now,  in  a  soft  little  nest  of  a  room, 
furnished  in  mahogany  and  dull  blue,  with  every  sort  of 
convenience  and  luxury,  with  a  gleaming  white  bathroom  of 
its  own,  with  long  mirrors,  shaded  lamps,  easy  chairs.  It 
amazed  her.  She  had  locked  the  door  and  got  undressed, 
but  she  couldn't  persuade  herself  to  go  to  bed.  Barefooted, 
in  a  sturdy  cotton  nightdress  her  mother  had  made,  she 
wandered  about,  examining  everything  like  a  happy  child. 

Then,  not  for  the  first  time,  she  sat  down  before  the 
dressing-table  and  studied  her  own  reflection  in  the  triple 
mirror — the  profile  with  the  long,  delicate  nose,  the  narrow 
cheek,  the  soft  fullness  of  the  chin.  Then  she  looked  straight 
before  her,  at  her  dark  and  solemn  face,  her  long  black  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle,  making  her  more  than  ever  like  a 
Madonna,  sorrowful,  spiritual. 

She  was  vaguely  aware  of  the  rare  and  exotic  quality  of 
her  charm,  and  she  was  dissatisfied  with  herself  because  her 
thoughts  were  so  incongruous.  She  couldn't  help  wonder 
ing  how  much  the  lace  bedspread  cost,  and  where  it  had 
been  bought.  She  had  seen  furnishings  like  these  in  the 
shops,  and  she  began  to  compute  how  much  the  whole  thing 
must  have  cost. 

"For  Gawd's  sake!"  she  cried  impatiently.  "Why  can't 
I  just  enjoy  it,  and  not  be  so " 

She  had  no  word  for  her  meaning.  She  gpt  up,  and 

36 


ANGELICA  37 

from  behind  the  curtains  looked  out  upon  the  clear  and 
chilly  May  night,  down  below,  across  the  road,  over  a  wood 
land  of  delicate  young  trees,  scarcely  stirring  in  a  faint  wind. 
That  august  loveliness  disturbed  her.  She  turned  away, 
back  to  the  shelter  of  the  dainty  room,  puzzled  and  angry 
because  she  couldn't  enjoy  it  with  simplicity;  because  there 
was  something,  in  the  night  outside — or  was  it  within  her 
self  ? — that  distressed  and  hurt  her. 
Undine  waiting  for  a  soul! 


n 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  flew  across  the 
room,  alarmed.  Who  knew  what  customs  these  rich  people 
had?  A  little  clock  told  her  that  it  was  just  ten;  she  was 
sure  they  didn't  go  to  bed  then.  She  knew,  indeed,  from 
the  Sunday  papers,  that  they  turned  night  into  day.  Per 
haps  they  had  a  meal  now,  and  she  was  expected  to  be  ready 
for  it. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  through  the  closed  door. 

"Mrs.  Russell  wants  you  at  once  in  her  room,"  said  a 
sharp  voice. 

So  she  put  on  her  shrunken,  faded  little  kimono  and  went 
out  into  the  hall.  A  light  burned  there,  showing  a  double 
row  of  closed  doors.  In  what  possible  way  was  she  to  know 
Mrs.  Russell's?  She  was  daunted;  she  didn't  even  know 
who  composed  the  household;  couldn't  imagine  who  might 
be  behind  those  closed  doors. 

There  wasn't  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  advanced  a  little, 
and  stopped  again,  frowning  at  her  own  distress,  her  own 
fast-beating  heart. 

"I'm  only  doing  what  I'm  paid  to  do !"  she  reassured  her 
self.  "If  I  can't  find  her,  I'm  a  fool.  I  will!  I'll  knock 
at  every  single  door !" 

She  began  with  a  firm  rap  on  the  door  next  her  own. 


38  ANGELICA 

There  was  no  response,  so  she  tried  the  next,  and  at  once 
that  agreeable  voice  called  out : 

"Come  in!" 

Mrs.  Russell  lay  in  bed  with  her  eyes  closed,  in  a  lace 
cap  and  negligee.  Her  little  rose-shaded  lamp  gave  only  a 
dim  light,  by  which  she  looked  oddly  young  and  pretty ;  even 
her  tousled  hair  was  charming.  The  rest  of  the  big  room 
was  shadowy,  with  here  and  there  a  glint  from  glass  or 
silver. 

There  was  absolute  silence;  Mrs.  Russell  didn't  stir.  An 
gelica  felt  herself  at  a  great  disadvantage  in  her  kimono, 
standing  at  the  bedside,  waiting  for  orders.  It  nettled  her. 

"Well !"  she  demanded,  with  a  boldness  that  surprised 
even  herself. 

But  Mrs.  Russell  didn't  notice  it,  or  at  least  didn't  appear 
to  notice  it.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  affably. 

"I'm  horribly  selfish,  aren't  I  ?  But  I'm  such  a  miserable 
sleeper,  and  I  felt — won't  you  read  to  me  a  bit?" 

"All  right!"  said  Angelica;  but  though  she  spoke  so  care 
lessly,  she  felt  suddenly  quite  sick.  "What  shall  I  read?" 

"Here's  my  book.  I  suppose  you  don't  read  French,  do 
you?" 

Angelica  reddened. 

"Yes,  of  course!"  she  answered.  "Nothing  but  French 
spoken  in  the  factory,  you  know!" 

"We'll  stick  to  English,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Russell,  with 
just  the  same  smile.  "And  hand  me  my  cigarette-case,  won't 
you?" 

Angelica  did  so,  and  nervously  opened  the  book  at  a 
marked  page ;  but  Mrs.  Russell  stopped  her. 

"Just  a  minute  please !  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  I'll 
have  to  explain  things  a  little.  I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that  I 
really  engaged  you  for  my  daughter-in-law?  She's  in  a 
terrible  state,  poor  soul!  She  lost  her  little  boy.  He  died 
of  pneumonia  six  weeks  ago.  Do  you  know,  I've  always 
thought  that  that  poor  little  creature  caught  the  disease  from 


ANGELICA  39 

a  friend  of  Polly's,  whose  husband  was  just  getting  over  it 
when  she  came  here.  My  husband  insists  that  it's  awfully 
contagious,  or  infectious,  or  whichever  it  is.  And  this 
woman,  my  dear,  was  so  heartless  about  that  poor  man! 
She  said,  when  I  asked  after  him,  'Oh,  nothing  will  ever 
kill  him!'  Did  you  ever?  But  as  far  as  that  goes,  she's 
never  made  the  slightest  pretense  of  caring  for  him.  But  I 
think — don't  you? — that  you  can  be  decent  without  being 
hypocritical.  She  simply  tells  every  one  that  she  married 
him  for  his  money,  and  that  now  she's  got  it,  she's  going  to 
spend  it.  Of  course,  I've  known  her  for  years,  but  her  hus 
band's  more  or  less  of  a  stranger — a  Canadian,  I  think; 
and  really  very  nice — too  nice,  I  tell  her.  I  don't  make  any 
pretense  about  it.  I  simply  tell  her  she's  a  heartless  little 
beast,  and  extravagant.  It's  incredible!" 

Angelica  was  bewildered  by  this  volubility.  She  saw  no 
point  in  it,  and  yet  she  couldn't  believe  that  any  words 
spoken  in  so  beautiful  a  voice,  and  with  so  just  and  well- 
bred  an  accent,  were  mere  nonsense.  She  sat  staring  at 
the  red-haired  lady  until  she  came  back  to  her  subject. 

"But  about  Polly.  She's  the  dearest  creature  in  all  the 
world,  but  she's  rather  peculiar  in  some  ways.  She's — well, 
exacting.  She  can't  see — she  wants  every  instant  of  my 
time.  Of  course  I'm  willing — I'm  glad  to  be  with  her;  but 
after  all,  one  has  one's  own  life,  and  there's  my  husband. 
But  if  ever  I  suggest  a  companion!  My  dear!  We  have 
the  most  miserable  time.  She  never  says  a  word,  but  she  lets 
you  see.  .  .  . 

"But  I  simply  cannot  stop  in  that  room  all  day  long.  I'm 
frightfully  dependent  upon  exercise.  If  I  don't  get  plenty 
of  it,  I  go  all  to  pieces.  I  can't  sit  still  there  hour  after  hour. 
I'm  terribly  sorry  about  her  child,  and  all  that,  but  really, 
what  is  the  good  in  talking  and  talking  about  it?  It  only 
upsets  her.  And  yet,  if  you  try  to  talk  of  anything  else, 
you  can  see  she  considers  you  cruel  and  unfeeling.  She 
simply  broods  over  the  thing.  She's  so  morbidly  sensitive 


40  ANGELICA 

that  it's  painful  to  be  with  her.  And  I'm  not  particularly 
good  with  sick  people  myself.  I'm  too  nervous.  My  dear, 
you'll  remember  all  this,  won't  you,  and  be  tactful  with  the 
poor  soul  ?" 

"When  will  I  see  her?" 

"That's  the  point.  You  see,  it  would  never  do  to  bring 
you  in  as  a  companion.  She  says  she  couldn't  stand  a  hired 
companion,  when  she's  in  such  a  state.  She  doesn't  seem  to 
understand  that  I've  got  to  have  some  sort  of  relief.  That's 
why  I'm  paying  you  out  of  my  own  pocket;  but  it  won't 
do  to  let  her  know.  That's  why  I've  given  you  that  little 
guest-room.  I  want  to  tell  her  you're  the  daughter  of  an 
old  friend,  and  that  you've  come  to  visit  me — until  she  gets 
used  to  you.  Do  you  see  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica.  "But  do  you  think  she'll  believe 
it?" 

"Don't  worry,  my  dear.  I  understand  Polly.  All  you've 
got  to  do  is  to  sit  with  her  and  listen  to  her  if  she  wants  to 
talk.  She  won't  ask  you  any  questions ;  she's  too  indifferent. 
That's  really  the  trouble  with  the  poor  girl — she's  so  self- 
centered.  She  lies  there,  brooding.  Of  course,  it's  hard 
for  her;  but  after  all,  we  all  have  our  troubles  to  bear.  Now, 
to-morrow  morning  I'll  take  you  in  there  and  introduce  you 
to  her,  and  you  must " 

She  stopped  abruptly  and  yawned.  It  was  a  disconcerting 
habit  she  had,  as  if  her  incredibly  frivolous  mind  wore  itself 
down  by  its  own  erratic  movements. 

"Now  read,  won't  you?"  she  asked. 

Angelica  began,  took  up  the  book,  and  plunged  into  it, 
concentrating  her  mind  fiercely  on  the  words  alone.  She 
had  no  idea  what  the  book  was  about;  what  she  read  con 
veyed  no  impression  to  her  mind.  Her  sole  thought  was 
not  to  expose  herself,  not  to  make  mistakes,  and  of  course 
she  did.  There  came  words  upon  words  which  she  couldn't 
pronounce. 

"What?"  Mrs.  Russell  would  ask  with  an  amused  frown, 


ANGELICA  41 

and  Angelica  would  have  to  stop  and  spell  the  word  and  be 
corrected. 

For  days  they  stayed  in  her  head  to  torment  her,  those 
words,  those  sounds  which  she  repeated  after  Mrs.  Russell. 
They  danced  before  her  eyes,  rang  in  her  ears  at  night. 

It  was  a  horrible  hour.  Angelica  couldn't  make  any  sort 
of  counter-attack,  couldn't  assert  herself,  could  only  go  on, 
and  make  outrageous  blunders,  and  humbly  repeat  the  cor 
rections. 

Came  a  long  French  phrase,  not  one  word  of  which  she 
could  manage.  She  stopped  short. 

"Go  on!"  said  Mrs.  Russell. 

Angelica  flew  at  the  thing,  desperately  and  recklessly. 
Mrs.  Russell  couldn't  stop  laughing.  She  lay  back  on  her 
pillows  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  my  dear !  That's  really- You  mustn't  mind  my 

laughing,  will  you?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Angelica. 

But  she  did — she  hated  and  dreaded  that  laughter  with 
all  her  heart.  If  she  had  planned  it  carefully,  Mrs.  Russell 
couldn't  have  devised  a  better  method  for  subduing  her. 

Yet  all  her  recollections  of  this  nightmare  of  shame  and 
distress  were  permeated  by  the  mystic  atmosphere  that  so 
enthralled  her — the  rose-shaded  light,  the  nonchalant,  red- 
haired  lady  in  bed,  the  sweet  smoke  of  the  cigarettes;  all  the 
softness,  the  seclusion,  the  luxury,  all  the  amazing  fascina 
tion  of  a  dream  come  true — except,  of  course,  that  she 
should  have  been  in  Mrs.  Russell's  place. 


in 

"All  right !  Never  mind !  Don't  bother  any  more !"  mur 
mured  Mrs.  Russell  at  last.  "It's  a  stupid  story,  anyway; 
and  I  suppose  you're  getting  sleepy.  If  you'll  go  down 
stairs  and  fetch  me  another  book,  I'll  read  myself  to  sleep. 


42  ANGELICA 

There's  a  package  of  new  books  Eddie  brought  home.  Pick 
out  something  that  looks  bright  and  jolly,  will  you  ?  They're 
on  the  table  in  the  library." 

"I'll  have  to  get  dressed  first." 

"No,  you  won't.  Put  on  my  slippers  and  run  down  as 
you  are.  There's  not  a  soul  in  the  house  but  Polly  and  you 
and  me  and  the  servants,  and  they're  all  women.  It's  just 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs." 

So  Angelica,  shamefaced  in  her  kimono  and  with  her 
hanging  hair,  went  softly  down  the  stairs.  The  halls  were 
brightly  lighted,  but  there  was  no  one  about,  and  not  a 
sound.  She  went  into  the  library,  which  she  remembered 
having  passed.  It  was  fascinating  to  her  at  this  hour — 
silent  and  warm,  with  little  glowing  lamps  in  the  corners 
and  rows  and  rows  of  orderly  books. 

On  the  long  table  in  the  center  of  the  room  lay  the  pack 
age  she  had  been  told  of.  The  paper  was  opened,  and 
showed  five  or  six  fresh,  brightly  bound  books.  Angelica 
inspected  them  with  profound  attention,  for  with  all  her 
heart  she  desired  to  make  an  intelligent  choice.  At  last 
she  picked  out  three,  and  was  about  to  go  upstairs  with 
them,  when  a  voice  addressed  her — a  man's  voice. 

"Are  they  for  Mrs.  Russell?"  it  said. 

She  started  violently,  dismayed  at  being  seen  by  mascu 
line  eyes  in  such  a  costume.  He  was  standing  in  the  door 
way;  evidently  he  had  just  come  in,  for  he  carried  his  hat 
and  stick.  He  wore  a  dinner-jacket,  and  it  was  the  first 
time  Angelica  had  ever  been  spoken  to  by  a  man  in  a  dinner- 
jacket. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"All  those  books  are  good,"  he  said.  "I  know  she'll  like 
them  all.  I  picked  them  out  for  her." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  and  stealthy  look,  and  her  heart 
beat  faster.  He  might,  she  thought,  very  well  be  the  hero 
for  whom  she  was  waiting.  He  was  a  tall,  blond  fellow 
with  a  little  fair  mustache,  very  boyish-looking,  very  serious, 


ANGELICA  43 

not  exactly  handsome,  but  unquestionably  possessed  of  a 
certain  distinction.  She  looked  at  him  again,  but  this  time 
she  met  his  eyes  squarely,  his  shrewd  gray  eyes,  and  she  saw 
quite  plainly  that  he  was  displeased,  that  he  didn't  like  to 
see  girls  in  kimonos  in  that  library. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked  Angelica.     "A  new  maid?" 

"No!"  she  replied  indignantly.  "Not  a  maid.  I'm  her 
— I  don't  know  what  her  name  is — her  companion." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"I'll  take  up  the  books,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Russell.  You  needn't  trouble.  Good  night !" 

He  waved  her  out  of  the  room  ahead  of  him.  She  hur 
ried,  anxious  to  get  out  of  his  sight,  and  went  into  her  own 
room.  Looking  back,  she  saw  that  he  had  left  the  door 
of  Mrs.  Russell's  room  open,  and  she  approached,  to  listen, 
for  she  felt  quite  sure  that  the  conversation  would  relate 
to  herself. 

The  young  man  had  flung  the  books  on  the  table,  and 
was  talking  angrily. 

"Then  what  did  you  do  it  for?  You've  no  business  to 
bring  a  girl  like  that  into  the  house !" 

"She's  respectable,"  said  Mrs.  Russell. 

"You  don't  know.  She  doesn't  look  it.  Anyway,  even 
if  she  is,  she's  no  more  fit  to  be  a  companion  than — I  don't 
know  what.  It's  an  insult  to  Polly!" 

"No,  it  isn't.  She's  a  nice,  cheerful  girl,  and  she  can  be 
very  useful.  She  sews " 

"If  you  want  her  for  a  maid,  call  her  a  maid,  and  put 
her  in  a  maid's  room.  Why  did  you  put  her  there,  at  the 
end  of  the  hall?  One  of  the  best  rooms!" 

"To  be  near  me." 

"Near  you?    You  said  she  was  for  Polly." 

"That's  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  help  me  now  and 
then  when  I— 

"Now,  look  here !"  interrupted  the  young  man.  "This  is 
final.  Either  she  goes  to-morrow,  or  you'll  put  her  in 


44  ANGELICA 

her  proper  place.  I  won't  have  her  running  around  the 
house  half-dressed.  If  she's  a  maid,  treat  her  as  a  maid. 
If  you  want  a  companion,  get  one — a  real  one.  What  does 
Polly  say?" 

"Polly  hasn't  seen  her  yet.  I  engaged  her.  I  went  all  the 
way  into  the  city  to  see  her  mother  and  find  out  about  her. 
You  know,  Eddie,  I'm  paying  her  out  of  my  own  pocket, 
because  I  feel  that  Polly  shouldn't  be  left  alone." 

"You  ought  to  know  better  than  to  pick  out  a  girl  like 
this  one !"  he  cried.  "I'm  disgusted.  You're  so  anxious  to 
get  rid  of  the  trouble  of  looking  after  Polly  that  you'd  pick 
up  any  one,  out  of  the  street — any  one  cheap!" 

He  was  very  angry ;  his  fair  face  flushed ;  he  twisted  his 
little  mustache  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"I'd  like  to  see  her "  he  began  again. 

Angelica  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  rushed  back  to  her 
own  room  and  began  to  dress  with  frantic  haste. 

"Well !"  she  said  to  herself.  "It's  all  up,  now !  I  never 
thought  it  would  last,  anyway." 

At  length  she  was  dressed,  shabby  and  dusty  enough  in 
her  street  clothes,  but  feeling  far  better  prepared  for  an 
encounter  with  the  blond  young  man. 

"All  right!"  she  said.  "All  right!  Let  him  fire  me!  I 
don't  care.  I  never  pretended  to  be  any  different  from 
what  I  am,  anyway." 

She  was  defiant,  but  she  wasn't  resentful,  any  more  than 
she  would  have  been  if  the  boss  of  a  factory  had  reproved 
her.  She  had  grown  up  in  the  consciousness  that  there  were 
in  the  world  people  who  had  a  right  to  get  angry  and  to 
reprove — teachers,  policemen,  bosses,  rich  people. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  informed  her 
sharply  that  Mrs.  Russell  was  waiting  for  her.  To  her 
surprise  and  relief  she  found  Mrs.  Russell  alone,  and  yawn 
ing. 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to  go  to  bed  now,"  she  said.  "It's 
after  twelve;  so  I'll  say  good  night  to  you." 


ANGELICA  45 

"Good  night,"  Angelica  answered. 

She  supposed  that  she  was  to  be  allowed  to  leave  the 
room;  but  she  had  quite  half  an  hour's  work  still  to  do. 
She  had  to  brush  and  braid  Mrs.  Russell's  short,  curly  hair; 
she  had  to  go  down-stairs  again  and  fetch  a  bottle  of  spring 
water  from  the  ice-chest;  she  had  to  put  away  dozens  of 
things,  and  then  to  set  out  on  the  table  lip-salve,  cold  cream, 
and  some  sort  of  medicine;  and  then  to  pull  up  the  blinds, 
put  out  the  light,  and  grope  her  way  out  in  the  dark. 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  bed  very  much  earlier ; 
yet,  once  more  in  her  own  room,  she  didn't  feel  at  all  sleepy. 
She  lay  stretched  out  on  the  bed,  with  her  hands  clasped 
under  her  head,  meditating  about  Mrs.  Russell,  who  was 
altogether  outside  her  experience,  and  the  blond  young  man 
with  the  little  mustache.  She  wondered  who  he  was. 

"Her  son,  I  guess,"  she  reflected.  "Anyway,  he's  pretty 
cross  to  her.  I  wouldn't  put  up  with  it,  if  I  was  her.  One 
of  these  rich  young  fellers,  he  is,  and  as  spoiled  as  can  be !" 

Then  she  didn't  think  about  him  any  more;  he  was  no 
longer  the  possible  hero  of  her  romance.  He  was  so  ob 
viously  not  for  her.  Her  beauty,  her  impudence,  would 
never  impress  him.  Her  mind  dwelt  for  an  instant  with 
a  sort  of  shadowy  regret  upon  his  nice  young  face ;  then 
the  current  of  her  thought  changed,  and  ran  back  into  the 
channel  it  had  made  for  itself — that  of  speculating  upon  her 
own  future. 

"My  first  night  in  this  house!"  she  said.  "I  wonder 
what's  going  to  happen  to  me  here?" 

She  couldn't  invent  or  imagine  anything.  Certainly  she 
couldn't  even  dimly  foresee  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


Angelica  awoke  early  the  next  morning-  and  dressed 
quickly,  determined  to  be  ready  before  Mrs.  Russell  could 
possibly  send  for  her.  She  needn't  have  hurried ;  she  waited 
from  half -past  six  until  half -past  eight  without  hearing  a 
sound.  Time  after  time  she  opened  her  door  and  stepped 
out  into  the  hall,  to  find  it  always  empty  and  silent. 

Finally  she  could  tolerate  it  no  longer,  she  was  so  much 
afraid  that  something  was  expected  of  her,  that  she  was 
betraying  her  awful  ignorance  of  rich  people's  habits.  She 
decided  to  go  down-stairs,  find  a  servant,  and  make  diplo 
matic  inquiries  about  the  daily  procedure. 

As  she  was  going  along  the  hall,  who  should  come  out  of 
his  room,  directly  in  her  path,  but  the  blond  young  man. 

"Er — good  morning,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  frown. 

"Good  morning!"  Angelica  answered,  and  in  her  despera 
tion  added :  "Say,  would  you  mind  telling  me,  when  does 
she  get  up?" 

"Ten  o'clock — somewhere  about  then.  You'd  better  come 
and  have  your  breakfast  with  me  now.  I'd  like  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  you." 

She  followed  him  with  a  great  assumption  of  carelessness 
— which,  unfortunately,  there  was  no  one  to  see — down  the 
stairs  and  into  a  little  screened  porch,  where  a  willow  table 
was  laid.  She  was  impressed  by  what  she  saw,  but  not 
astonished,  for  she  was  prepared  for  the  utmost  luxury. 
In  fact,  she  couldn't  have  been  astonished,  no  matter  what 
she  had  seen,  so  greatly  did  the  marvels  of  which  she  had 
read  in  the  Sunday  papers  exceed  any  possible  reality. 

46 


ANGELICA  47 

On  the  table  stood  a  copper  coffee  percolator,  shining  in 
the  sun  like  gold,  and  steaming  softly;  a  nickel  chafing-dish, 
bright  as  silver;  cut-glass  cream-jugs  and  sugar-bowls  like 
diamonds ;  and  a  cloth  of  hemstitched  linen.  There  were  lit 
tle  willow  chairs  with  chintz  cushions  drawn  up  before  each 
place,  and  sweet  fresh  flowers.  She  was  in  no  way  dis 
appointed. 

She  sat  down  opposite  the  young  man,  resolved  to  do 
exactly  as  he  did.  He  unfolded  an  immense  napkin,  then 
picked  up  the  morning  paper,  and  for  a  few  minutes  studied 
the  Wall  Street  news  intently.  Then,  as  the  servant  entered, 
he  laid  the  paper  down  and  sat  immovable  while  she  drew 
him  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee,  prepared  it,  and  put  before 
him  a  cantaloupe  cut  into  halves  and  filled  with  ice. 

"Bring  this  young  lady's  breakfast,  if  you  please,"  he 
said,  frowning  again. 

"Now,  then,  miss — what  is  your  name?"  he  asked  An 
gelica,  when  the  maid  had  left  the  room. 

"Kennedy — Angelica  Kennedy." 

"Miss  Kennedy,  I  was  speaking  to  my  mother  about  you 
last  night.  I  felt  that  it  wasn't  at  all  the  thing  to — for  her 
to  have  engaged  you  as  a  companion.  You're  not  qualified. 
It's  not  fair  to  Mrs.  Geraldine,  and  it's  not  fair  to  you. 
You  couldn't  fill  such  a  position." 

He  spoke  with  decision,  with  authority,  but  not  in  the 
least  unkindly.  He  spoke  in  the  manner  which  his  business 
training  had  given  him;  and  Angelica  accepted  it  in  the 
manner  she  had  learned  from  her  factory  experience.  He 
was  arbitrary  and  supreme;  useless  for  her  to  complain,  to 
resent.  She  didn't  even  trouble  to  think  whether  he  was 
just  or  not;  simply,  she  was  "fired." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  without  emotion. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "if  you  wish  to  remain  in  another  capac 
ity — if  you  wish  to  be  Mrs.  Russell's  maid " 

"No,  I  don't." 


48  ANGELICA 

"That's  for  you  to  decide,  of  course;  but  it's  a  pleasant, 
easy  position,  and  the  pay  is  better." 

"I'm  not  thinking  so  much  about  pay.  I  could  have  got 
plenty  of  jobs  that  would  have  paid  twice  as  much  as  this. 
Only " 

"Why  did  you  want  this?"  he  asked,  with  interest. 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd "  Her  dark  face  flushed.  "I 

want  to  learn — nice  ways.  I  want  to  get  on.  I  don't  want 
to  be — like  I  am,  all  my  life." 

"You're  p'erfectly  right!"  he  said,  looking  at  her.  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you're  ambitious;  but  why  choose  this  sort  of 
way  to  get  on?  Why  don't  you  try  to  get  into  a  good 
office?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No!  It  wouldn't  do  me  a  bit  of  good  to  get  ahead  in 
business  if  I — didn't  have  nice  ways.  No!  I  watched  the 
papers  a  long  time  for  something  I  could  have  a  try  at,  and 
then  I  saw  Mrs.  Russell's  ad,  with  'experience  unnecessary.' 
I  knew  I  wasn't  the  kind  of  girl  that  they  want  for  a  com 
panion,  but  I  thought  if  I  could  show  'em  that  I  could  be 
more  useful  than  any  one  else,  I  might  stand  a  chance." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  while  the  servant  reentered  with 
a  cantaloupe  for  Angelica  and  porridge  for  him.  Then  he 
looked  up  and  studied  her  face. 

"I  think — if  I'd  understood  the  case  better,  perhaps " 

he  said.  "But,  anyway,  why  don't  you  stay  as  my  mother's 
maid  ?  There's  no  use  having  a  silly  pride  about  such  things. 
There  always  has  to  be  a  beginning." 

"No!"  she  said  again.  "There's  no  sense  in  that.  If  I 
can't  be — oh,  right  in  the  family,  kind  of,  it  won't  help  me. 
I'll  go.  I  couldn't  stand  being  a  servant." 

He  didn't  say  any  more,  but  continued  his  breakfast  with 
hearty  appetite,  and  with  a  dexterity  which  she  found  her 
self  quite  unable  to  copy.  At  last  he  had  finished,  and 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  he  said.     "You're  evidently  out  of 


ANGELICA  49 

the  ordinary.  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  be  given  a 
chance — if  you're  really  anxious  to  improve  yourself."  He 
rose.  "I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Geraldine  this  evening,  when  I 
get  home,"  he  said.  "If  she  agrees,  you  shall  stay.  Good 
morning!" 

He  went  out  abruptly,  leaving  Angelica  alone  at  the  table. 
She  jumped  up  in  a  violent  hurry,  before  the  servant  could 
return  and  find  her  defenseless,  and  went  out  into  the  hall. 
She  had  no  idea  where  to  go,  what  to  do ;  she  was  bewildered 
and  rather  miserable.  The  young  man  hadn't  made  any 
effort  to  spare  her  feelings.  Suggesting  that  she  should  be 
a  servant! 

"He's  got  a  nerve,  all  right !"  she  said  to  herself,  but  half 
heartedly. 

Really  she  thought  that  he  was  right  in  all  that  he  had 
said,  and  that,  in  spite  of  his  uncompromising  frankness, 
he  had  been  friendly.  She  liked  him. 

"But  she's  different,"  she  reflected.  "I  won't  let  her 
trample  all  over  me!" 

She  recalled  the  previous  evening  with  burning  shame. 
Those  French  words!  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Russell  had  been 
unfair  and  unkind,  and  she  went  up-stairs,  to  find  her,  with 
deep  reluctance.  She  was  determined  not  to  be  meek  and 
not  to  be  frightened. 

"You've  got  to  act  like  you  were  somebody!"  she  said 
to  herself.  "You've  got  to  show  'em  you  won't  stand  any 
of  their  nonsense.  People  take  you  at  your  own  valuation !" 

That  was  a  favorite  phrase  of  hers.  She  had  read  it 
often,  and  it  quite  fell  in  with  her  cheap  and  pitiful 
philosophy.  It  was  true  enough,  too,  among  the  people  she 
knew — people  who  weren't  capable  of  judging  or  analyzing 
a  fellow  being.  She  herself  took  others  at  their  own  valua 
tion,  because  of  an  unconscious  conviction  that  she  was  in 
capable  of  making  an  original  appraisement. 

So,  resolutely  looking  as  if  she  were  somebody,  she 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Russell's  door. 


50  ANGELICA 

"Come  in!"  said  that  suave  and  charming  voice,  and  she 
entered. 

She  had  expected  to  find  Mrs.  Russell  still  in  bed,  lazy 
and  fascinating,  and  she  was  more  or  less  surprised  at  find 
ing  her  up  and  dressed,  and  scribblmg  away  at  a  little  desk. 
All  her  charm  had  vanished.  She  looked  quite  her  five  and 
fifty  years;  she  was  bony,  sallow,  horribly  untidy  in  a  green 
sweater  and  a  short  plaid  skirt  that  showed  her  knoblike 
ankles  and  her  great  feet.  It  was  rather  surprising  to  see 
her  hair  coming  down  so  early  in  the  morning,  a  coil  of  it 
slipping  out  under  her  jaunty  little  hat.  It  gave  her  a  most 
unpleasant,  haglike  look. 

"Golf  this  morning!"  she  cried  cheerfully.  "Damn  these 
letters !  They'll  have  to  wait.  Now,  my  dear,  I'll  take  you 
to  Polly,  because  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  Mind  what  you 
say,  won't  you?  She's  so  exacting!  Make  friends  with 
her  and  stay  near  her.  I've  absolutely  got  to  be  gone  all 
day — I've  promised  so  many  people  at  the  Country  Club, 
and  I've  got  to  get  in  a  lot  of  practice  before  the  big  match. 
It's  a  wonderful  game,  but  it  makes  a  perfect  slave  of  you. 
It's  so  fatally  easy  to  lose  your  form.  I  take  it  so  seriously. 
I  worry  myself  ill  over  it.  Come  on!" 

Angelica  came  after  her  slowly.  She  didn't  know  whether 
she  ought  to  say  anything  about  her  talk  with  the  blond 
young  man — whether  he  expected  her  to  do  so.  Before  she 
had  decided,  Mrs.  Russell  was  knocking  on  a  half-open  door, 
and  a  voice  bade  them  come  in. 

Angelica  had  had  a  preconceived  idea  that  this  daughter- 
in-law  would  be  young  and  beautiful,  a  pampered  darling. 
She  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  reality.  There  was  a 
woman  lying  in  bed,  reading  a  newspaper,  which  she  politely 
put  down  when  they  entered — a  woman  of  forty,  dark, 
sallow,  with  heavy  eyes.  She  was  apathetic  and  weary,  but 
she  was  not  dull ;  there  was  a  quiet  intelligence  in  her  glance ; 
she  was  indifferent  without  being  uninterested.  She  was 
like  a  very  tired  but  pleased  spectator  at  a  play.  There  was 


ANGELICA  51 

a  charm  about  her  lassitude,  a  lingering  handsomeness  which 
she  made  no  effort  to  retain. 

"Good  morning!"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Good  morning,  Polly!  Did  you  have  a  good  night? 
I  don't  believe  you  did,  you  poor  soul!  I  couldn't  get  you 
out  of  my  mind.  I  couldn't  sleep,  thinking  about  you.  I 
would  have  come  in,  half  a  dozen  times,  only  that  I  was 
afraid  of  disturbing  you,  if  you  had  dropped  off.  And  it 
worried  me  so  to  think  that  I  had  to  leave  you  to-day !  But  it 
couldn't  be  helped.  I've  absolutely  got  to  go  to  the  dentist. " 

"Like  that?"  asked  Polly,  glancing  at  the  other's  costume. 

"My  dear,  of  course  not!  I  just  put  these  on  to  do  a 
little  gardening.  I  was  up  so  early;  I  thought  I'd  look 
after  your  beloved  plants  a  bit." 

"Now,  why  does  she  tell  such  lies?"  thought  Angelica. 
"Can't  she  see  that  that  woman  doesn't  believe  her?" 

"You're  going  out  again,  then?"  asked  Polly,  with  just 
a  shade  of  reproachfulness  in  her  voice. 

"My  dear,  I'm  obliged  to  go  to  the  dentist's " 

"You  won't  be  home  to  lunch,  then,  I  suppose?" 

"But  you  shan't  be  alone!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell  brightly. 
"I've  got  Miss  Kennedy  here — the  daughter  of  an  old,  old 
friend  of  mine!" 

And  then  began  a  new  series  of  the  most  preposterous 
lies,  flowing  in  a  bland,  untroubled  stream.  She  said  that 
Angelica's  father  was  a  clergyman  living  in  the  country, 
and  that  Angelica  was  going  to  be  married,  and  that  her 
mother  had  sent  her  to  stop  with  Mrs.  Russell  while  she 
bought  her  trousseau.  She  added  a  great  deal  of  the  gross 
est  flattery  about  Polly's  superior  taste. 

"I  advise  you  to  consult  her  in  everything!"  she  ended, 
turning  to  the  astounded  Angelica.  "Now,  then,  I've  got 
to  fly.  You  two  must  have  a  nice,  comfy  chat !" 

And  she  whimpered  to  Angelica  as  she  went  out: 

"Just  till  she  gets  used  to  you,  you  know.  Then  we  can 
tell  her!" 


52  ANGELICA 

ii 

Polly  lay  back  on  her  pillows,  looking  at  Angelica.  She 
didn't  ask  her  to  sit  down.  Angelica  returned  her  gaze  re 
sentfully  and  miserably,  ashamed  of  her  preposterous  posi 
tion,  but  quite  helpless,  having  no  idea  how  to  extricate  her 
self.  She  didn't  feel  able  to  say  bluntly  that  Mrs.  Russell's 
story  was  a  lie,  although  she  could  see  that  Polly  was  sus 
picious — more  than  suspicious — and  she  was  certain  that 
she  could  not  sustain  any  sort  of  examination. 

"When  did  you  come?"  inquired  Polly. 

"Last  night." 

"Alone?" 

"No;  she  brought  me." 

"Mrs.  Russell,  you  mean  ?  And  she  says  she  was  a  school 
friend  of  your  mother's.  I  wonder  what  school!" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Does  she  often  visit  your  mother?" 

"No." 

"Then,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  don't  know  her  very 
well?" 

"Never  saw  her  till  the  day  before  yesterday." 

Polly  smiled. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  feel  rather  strange  here?  How 
long  do  you  expect  to  stay  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know?  I've  forgotten — where  did  Mrs.  Rus 
sell  say  you  lived?" 

"In  New  York." 

"That's  odd — very  odd!  I  certainly  understood  her  to 
say  you  lived  in  the  country." 

Angelica  was  dumb. 

"Where  in  New  York?    I  know  the  city  so  well." 

"At  the  Ritz,"  said  Angelica  boldly. 

She  was  quite  desperate  now.     She  was  sure  that  Polly 


ANGELICA  53 

saw  through  her,  and  that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time 
before  she  was  shamefully  exposed. 

"At  the  Ritz !"  exclaimed  Polly. 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  long  and  hostile  look. 

"Yes,  at  the  Ritz,"  Angelica  repeated. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  that?"  asked  Polly  quietly. 

Angelica's  swarthy  face  grew  scarlet. 

"You  needn't  think  this  was  my  idea!"  she  cried.  "I 
don't  try  to  pass  myself  off  as — some  one  different.  She 
hired  me,  and  I  told  her  all  about  myself.  My  mother's  a 
janitress,  and  I  worked  in  a  factory!" 

Polly's  face  had  flushed,  too. 

"What  was  the  idea  in  trying  to  make  you  my  com 
panion?"  she  asked.  "Did  Mrs.  Russell  imagine  I  shouldn't 
know  the  difference?  Or  perhaps  she  thought  any  one  was 
good  enough  for  me !" 

Angelica  was  a  hardy  young  devil,  but  this  was  too  much 
even  for  her. 

"I'm  not — just  any  one,"  she  muttered,  with  a  quivering 
lip.  "I'm  not— dirt.  I'm- 

"My  dear  child!"  cried  Polly,  in  sudden  compunction. 
"Of  course  not!  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you  in  any  way. 
I've  nothing  against  you  personally ;  it's  simply  that  I  don't 
want  a  companion  at  all.  I — I  can't  endure  the  idea  of  a 
person  who  is  paid  to  amuse  me — a  stranger,  who  doesn't 
know  anything  about  me  or  the  child  I  lost!" 

She  waited  a  moment,  then  she  went  on. 

"I'm  very  sorry.  It's  an  awkward  situation  for  both  of 
us.  Mrs.  Russell  has  done  it  before.  You  see,  the  doctor 
said  I  was  not  to  be  left  alone — all  nonsense,  but  Mr.  Eddie 
took  it  very  much  to  heart,  and  he  wants  Mrs.  Russell  to 
stay  with  me.  Naturally  she  finds  it  irksome,  shut  up  in  the 
house.  If  I  can't  have  a  familiar  face,  then  I'd  rather  be 
alone.  I'm  sorry,  but  it's  no  use  your  wasting  your  time, 
my  dear.  You  might  be  looking  for  something  else."  She 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  kindly  smile.  "Good-by !"  she  said. 


54  ANGELICA 

Angelica  didn't  move. 

"I  saw  that  Mr.  Eddie,"  she  said;  "and  he  said  he  was 
going  to  speak  to  you  about  me.  He  said  he'd  keep  me  if 
you  would." 

"But  what  has  he  got  to  do  with  it?"  asked  Polly,  smiling. 

"Well,  at  first  he  thought  I  wouldn't  do;  and  then,  after 
he  thought  it  over,  he  said :  'Well,  I'll  agree  if  she  will.' ' 

Polly  was  silent,  perplexed  to  know  how  to  get  rid  of  this 
tenacious  young  creature.  Angelica  seized  the  opportunity. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry  I  came,  bothering  you;  but 
as  long  as  I'm  here,  hadn't  I  better  stay  till  she  gets  home 
again?  I'm  better  than  nobody!" 


in 

It  was  the  longest  day  Angelica  had  ever  spent.  She 
didn't  go  out  of  the  room ;  even  lunch  was  brought  to  them 
there.  She  sat,  answering  whenever  she  was  spoken  to,  but 
for  the  most  part  silent,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the 
country  landscape,  which  held  nothing  to  interest  her  gamine 
eye,  and  watching  the  clock.  She  couldn't  believe  that  some 
thing  wouldn't  happen. 

She  tried,  in  her  very  crude  way,  to  study  Polly,  but  she 
had  no  success.  She  watched  her  lying  for  long  stretches 
of  time  with  her  eyes  closed,  whether  asleep  or  awake  it  was 
impossible  to  divine.  Her  face  in  repose  was  profoundly 
mournful,  and,  unrelieved  by  the  fine  black  eyes,  looked  older 
and  more  worn.  Her  mouth  had  a  kindly  line,  but  it  was  the 
disillusioned,  cynical  kindness  of  one  who  expects  no  grati 
tude. 

"I  suppose  she's  Mr.  Eddie's  wife,"  reflected  Angelica. 
"Well,  she's  certainly  a  lot  older  than  he  is — ten  years,  I'd 
say.  I  wonder  why  they  call  her  Mrs.  Geraldine,  when  her 
name's  Polly!" 

This  detail  puzzled  her  greatly.     She  fancied  it  must  be 


ANGELICA  55 

some  custom  of  rich  people.  Perhaps  Polly  was  a  nickname 
for  Geraldine  among  them.  It  didn't  occur  to  her  that  it 
was  a  surname ;  she  took  it  for  granted  that  Polly  was  young 
Mrs.  Russell. 

Little  by  little,  as  always,  her  thoughts  drifted  off  to  her 
own  future. 

"I  wonder  how  it  '11  be  when  I'm  married  ?  Anyway,  I 
bet  you'd  never  catch  me  moping  around  like  she  does!  If 
I  was  rich  like  her,  and  got  sick,  I'd  have  lots  of  flowers, 
and  friends  coming  in  all  the  time — everything  nice  and 
pretty  and  bright;  and  a  trained  nurse,  too,  I  guess." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Angelica  had  little  sympathy. 
She  had  a  certain  amount  of  facile  generosity.  She  had 
moods  when  she  was  willing  to  do  a  great  deal  for  any  one 
she  liked;  but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  put  herself  in 
the  place  of  another,  to  compassionate  any  pain  which  she 
had  not  actually  felt  herself.  Losing  a  baby  seemed  to  her 
a  grief  of  small  significance.  She  had  seen  very  little  of 
babies,  and  wasn't  interested  in  them.  To  her,  at  nineteen, 
the  only  comprehensible  sorrow  was  that  of  losing  a  lover. 

She  regarded  Polly  with  irritation.  She  was  rich,  not 
too  old,  not  too  bad-looking;  why  didn't  she  try  to  throw 
off  this  lethargy  of  grief  and  take  some  advantage  of  her 
opportunities?  The  life  of  a  rich  person,  as  seen  by  An 
gelica,  was  a  very  fantasy  of  gaiety.  It  might  be  gaiety 
covering  a  broken  heart,  if  you  wished,  but  always  gaiety. 
The  proper  course  for  such  as  Polly  would  be  to  plunge  into 
a  whirlpool  of  excitement,  and  just  reveal,  from  time  to 
time,  by  a  shadow  stealing  over  her  face,  that  her  heart  was 
broken.  No,  decidedly  she  could  not  comprehend  this 
woman  lying  there  with  closed  eyes,  brooding  over  her  im 
measurable  loss. 

Polly,  however,  through  her  greater  sophistication  and 
experience,  and  through  her  native  shrewdness,  found  An 
gelica  no  puzzle.  Now  and  then  she  asked  her  a  well-calcu 
lated  question,  and  she  soon  learned  that  Angelica  had 


56  ANGELICA 

apparently  spent  all  her  nineteen  years  in  learning,  quite 
unconsciously,  whatever  would  be  useful  in  a  lady's  service. 
She  had  spent  innumerable  Saturday  afternoons  saunter 
ing  through  the  big  shops  with  girl  friends,  until  her  mind 
was  richly  stored  with  information.  She  knew  just  which 
place  was  best  for  any  given  article.  She  had  compared 
styles  and  prices,  and,  with  the  amazing  discernment  of 
her  sort,  she  had  even  distinguished  among  the  various 
grades  of  customers.  She  knew  who  the  really  best  people 
were,  where  they  went  for  things,  what  they  wanted,  and 
what  they  paid.  She  knew  things  one  wouldn't  have  imag 
ined  her  knowing — smart,  out-of-the-way  little  shops  for 
perfumes,  for  sweets,  for  lingerie. 

Of  equal  or  perhaps  superior  value  was  her  deftness. 
She  could  manicure,  she  could  dress  hair ;  she  had  picked  up, 
God  knows  how  or  where,  an  almost  professional  knowledge 
of  make-up.  She  could  sew,  she  could  embroider,  she  could 
quite  marvelously  trim  hats.  She  told  all  this  to  Polly,  be 
cause  she  wanted  to  convince  her  of  her  usefulness.  And 
she  did. 

Long  before  the  afternoon  was  over,  Polly  had  made 
up  her  mind  that  this  girl  would  be  valuable  and  likewise 
agreeable.  She  liked  her,  liked  her  lovely  face  and  her 
husky,  oddly  touching  voice,  liked  the  character  which  she 
so  ingenuously  displayed.  Here  was  a  girl  passionately 
anxious  to  please,  yet  without  servility,  who  was  at  once 
ignorant  and  intelligent;  one  whom  she  could  command, 
yet  on  whom  she  could  lean. 

However,  she  didn't  show  any  such  approval.  Who 
would,  indeed,  toward  a  person  being  employed? 


IV 

The  light  had  all  faded  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  big  room 
was  nearly  dark.    To  Angelica,  who  never  sat  still,  who  was 


ANGELICA  57 

not  formed  for  meditation,  it  was  depressing  to  remain  there 
in  the  deepening  twilight,  with  no  idea  how  much  longer 
this  wretchedness  would  endure.  Polly  didn't  stir;  all  the 
house  was  still. 

Her  imprisonment  was  terminated  by  the  sudden  entrance 
of  Mr.  Eddie. 

"Light  the  lamp!"  he  cried  sharply.  "You're  an  idiot, 
Polly,  to  sit  here  in  the  dark  like  this !  You — Miss  What's- 
Your-Name — you  mustn't  let  her.  It's  very  bad  for  her. 
Try  to  keep  her  cheerful." 

He  had  turned  a  switch  as  he  spoke,  and  five  electric  lights 
had  flashed  on,  making  the  room  as  brilliant  as  a  stage.  He 
looked  anxiously  at  Polly. 

"Eating  better?"  he  asked.  "I've  brought  you  some 
oysters — something  rather  special.  Are  you  coming  down  ?" 

"Not  to-night,  Eddie,  thank  you;  but  I'll  enjoy  the 
oysters.  Is  your  mother  home  yet  ?" 

"No.  I  shan't  wait  for  her.  I  told  Annie  an  early  din 
ner.  Half-past  six  sharp,  miss!  I've  brought  home  a  lot 
of  work  to  do." 

He  went  out  again,  with  a  curt  nod  at  Angelica. 

"You'd  better  get  ready,"  said  Polly.  "He's  not  very 
patient.  He  doesn't  like  to  be  kept  waiting." 

"I  am  ready,"  said  Angelica.  "I  haven't  any  better  clothes 
to  put  on." 

She  had  risen,  and  was  standing  near  the  door.  She 
knew  that  Polly  wished  her  to  go,  but  still  she  lingered, 
miserable  but  resolute. 

"Did  I  do  all  right  to-day?"  she  blurted  out. 

Polly  opened  her  eyes. 

"Why,  certainly,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Would  you  mind 
putting  out  all  the  lights  but  one?" 

"But  doesn't  he  want  it  cheerful?" 

"I  think  it  '11  be  more  cheerfui  that  way,"  Polly  answered, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "Now,  then — thank  you!  I  think  I'll 
rest  until  dinner-time." 


58  ANGELICA 

"But  were  you  satisfied  with  me?"  insisted  Angelica. 
"Of  course  I  was." 

"Well,  do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?    Because  he's  coming  to 
talk  it  over  with  you.    Will  you  tell  him  that  you  want  me?" 
"Yes,"  said  Polly.    "I  do  want  you — very  much!" 


CHAPTER  SIX 


Angelica  was  very  nervous  about  having  dinner  with  Mr. 
Eddie.  He  was  obviously  fastidious  and  hard  to  please, 
and  she  hadn't  the  vaguest  idea  what  his  standards  might 
be.  She  did  what  she  could  with  her  appearance;  she 
washed  her  hands  and  face  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  then, 
having  no  watch  or  clock  to  advise  her,  went  down-stairs. 

She  hadn't  been  in  the  dining-room  before,  and  she 
stopped,  profoundly  impressed,  in  the  doorway.  It  was  so 
exactly  the  dining-room  she  had  expected — the  grand,  stately 
dining-room  of  the  cinema  drama,  with  paneled  walls  and 
sideboard  loaded  with  plate,  the  opulently  set  table,  the  high- 
backed  chairs,  the  flowers  all  about,  the  very  air  of  dignity 
and  richness. 

There  was  the  essential  butler,  too.  She  felt  sure  that 
the  man  bending  over  the  sideboard  was  a  butler;  busy,  no 
doubt,  with  work  about  which  she  was  quite  ignorant.  She 
drew  near  to  ask  him  the  time,  and  was  surprised  to  see  him 
stuffing  cigars  into  his  pocket  from  three  or  four  boxes  that 
lay  in  a  drawer.  She  didn't  know  whether  this  was  proper, 
whether  it  was  part  of  a  butler's  proper  functions;  but  when 
she  saw  the  man's  face,  and  observed  his  stealthy  and  hur 
ried  manner,  she  grew  certain  that  he  was  stealing.  One 
of  those  society  thieves  of  whom  she  had  read! 

He  was  in  evening  dress,  and  he  had  some  sort  of  per 
fume  about  him.  He  was  a  slender  little  man  with  neat, 
snow-white  hair  and  a  dapper  white  mustache.  His  face 
was  bland,  with  a  long  upper  lip  that  gave  it  a  humorous 
look,  and  intelligent  blue  eyes. 

59 


6o  ANGELICA 

He  turned  suddenly  and  saw  her. 

"Well !"  he  cried.    "Upon  my  word !    And  who  are  you?" 

"That's  my  business,"  said  Angelica. 

This  was  her  idea  of  a  non-committal  answer.  She  could 
not  decide  whether  he  was  a  servant,  a  member  of  the 
family,  or  merely  an  outside  thief  who  had  dropped  in,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  make  no  avoidable  mistakes. 

"Of  course  it  is!"  he  replied,  cheerfully.  "No  doubt  I'll 
learn  in  the  course  of  time.  But  perhaps  you'll  enlighten  me 
as  to  your  status?" 

She  didn't  understand  him,  and  she  scowled. 

"Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  you're  doing  here?"  he  in 
quired. 

"Well,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  she  returned. 

"Waiting,"  he  answered  imperturbably.  "Waiting  for 
dinner  and  Mr.  Eddie." 

"Oh,  him !    Well,  he's  in.    I  saw  him  up-stairs." 

"But  do,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me  who  you  are !  We  don't 
take  pretty  girls  wandering  about  this  house  as  a  matter  of 
course.  You're  quite  a  startling  vision,  you  know." 

She  didn't  like  his  airy  gallantry;  but  she  was  sure  now 
that  he  wasn't  an  outside  thief  or  a  servant,  and  that  he 
must  therefore  be  a  member  of  the  family,  entitled  to  an 
swers  for  questions. 

"I'm  her  companion,"  she  said. 

"Aha!    And  what  is  your  name,  if  you  please?" 

"It's  Kennedy." 

"Oh!  Scotch,  are  you?  You  don't  look  Scotch.  You 
look  like  a  French  girl,  I  should  say — one  of  these  dark, 
passionate  creatures.  .  .  ." 

"All  right!"  she  interrupted,  scowling  more  heavily. 
"That  '11  do  about  me.  What's  the  time  ?" 

He  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"Six-thirty.  Do  you  dine  with  us,  Miss  Kennedy?  I 
hope  so.  I  feel " 

Just  then  Eddie  came  in,  also  in  a  dinner-jacket  and  in- 


ANGELICA  61 

\ 

credibly  neat — the  very  model  of  a  correct  young  man.    He 
bowed  ceremoniously,  if  somewhat  severely,  to  Angelica. 

"Good  evening,  doctor!"  he  said  to  the  white-haired  man. 

He  touched  an  electric  bell  with  his  foot.  The  parlour 
maid  came  hastening  in. 

"I  said  half-past  six !"  said  Mr.  Eddie. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know;  but  cook " 

"No  excuses !  You  can  certainly  get  some  sort  of  dinner 
ready  for  me  when  I  ask  for  it.  Now  hurry  up!  Never 
mind  about  what's  ready  and  what  isn't;  just  bring  me 
something  at  once." 

He  pulled  out  a  chair  for  Angelica,  and  they  all  sat  down 
in  silence. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Eddie  suddenly.  "What  a  life!  I'm 
tired  as  a  dog,  and  I've  got  to  work  all  evening." 

"Too  bad!"  said  the  doctor.  "Anything  I  could  do,  my 
boy?" 

"No,  thanks." 

There  was  silence  again.  The  soup  had  come  in,  and  Mr. 
Eddie  gave  it  his  undivided  attention.  He  ate  with  amaz 
ing  rapidity,  one  course  after  the  other,  and  he  expected  to 
be  served  without  an  instant's  delay.  Neither  the  doctor 
nor  Angelica  had  ever  finished  when  he  had,  and  their  plates 
were  always  whisked  away  with  choice  and  coveted  morsels 
on  them.  There  was  no  sort  of  conversation — nothing  more 
than  Mr.  Eddie  muttering,  with  his  mouth  full,  "All  right, 
Annie !"  and  having  one  plate  replaced  by  another. 

But  this  was  as  Angelica  liked  it.  She  didn't  wish  to 
talk  or  to  be  talked  to ;  she  wanted  to  sit  at  that  table,  with 
two  men  in  evening  dress,  to  contemplate  the  silver  and 
china  and  linen,  and  to  reflect  with  amazed  delight  upon 
her  situation.  A  dream  fulfilled! 

Cautiously  she  surveyed  her  two  companions — Mr.  Eddie, 
looking  rather  harassed,  and  as  oblivious  of  her  as  if  she 
were  invisible  to  him,  and  the  dapper  little  white-haired 
man,  whose  eye  often  met  hers  with  a  glance  stealthy  and 


62  ANGELICA 

curious.  She  decided  that  he  must  be  Polly's  physician,  and 
a  man  who  must  be  given  no  leeway.  She  had  seen  his  kind, 
standing  outside  stage  entrances,  with  walking-stick  and 
boutonniere  and  a  smirk,  or  on  corners  where  working  girls 
passed  on  their  way  home. 

Instantly  he  had  Finished,  Mr.  Eddie  got  up  and  went 
over  to  the  sideboard,  from  the  drawer  of  which  he  took 
the  three  rifled  boxes.  He  didn't  seem  to  notice  that  they 
had  been  tampered  with,  but  passed  two  to  the  doctor. 

"Help  yourself,"  he  said.  "I  got  these  from  a  chap  who 
imports  them  for  private  consumption.  Put  a  couple  in 
your  pocket.  They're  good." 

The  doctor  helped  himself  modestly  from  both  boxes,  and 
sniffed  at  them. 

"Ah !"  he  said.  "I  can  tell !  My  boy,  you  can  afford  to 
indulge  yourself;  you're  one  of  the  lucky  ones." 

"Yes,"  said  Eddie.    "Nothing  but  luck,  of  course !" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  disparage  you,"  cried  the  doctor.  "No 
one  appreciates  what  you've  done,  and  how  hard  you've 
worked,  better  than  I.  Just  a  little  joke,  Eddie!"  He 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose.  "I'll  have  to  run  out  and 
fetch  your  mother  home  from  the  club,"  he  said.  ffAu 
revoir!" 

Mr.  Eddie  followed  him  so  quickly  that  before  she  knew 
it  Angelica  found  herself  left  alone  at  the  table.  She,  too, 
hastened  out  of  the  room  and  up-stairs,  and  in  a  sort  of  panic 
knocked  at  Polly's  door. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  inquired  Polly's  voice,  languidly. 

"Angelica !"  she  answered,  forgetting,  and  hastily  added : 
"Kennedy." 

"I  don't  need  anything  this  evening,  thank  you.  Good 
night!" 

She  turned  away,  completely  at  a  loss.  It  was  only  half- 
past  seven,  hours  before  bedtime.  What  was  she  to  do? 

She  went  into  her  room.  It  was  as  charming  and  com 
fortable  as  she  had  remembered  it,  but  it  offered  no  pros- 


ANGELICA  63 

pect  of  amusement.  She  didn't  know  whether  she  ought  to 
go  into  the  library  or  any  of  the  rooms  down-stairs.  She 
wanted  to,  but  she  had  a  dread  of  being  spoken  to  by  a 
servant. 

"Well,  I'll  take  a  walk,  then,"  she  said.  "No  one  can 
say  a  word  against  that !" 

She  put  on  her  jacket  and  her  rakish  big  black  hat,  and 
went  sauntering  down  the  hall.  She  had  to  pass  the  open 
door  of  a  room,  and  in  it  she  saw  Mr.  Eddie,  writing.  He 
saw  her,  too. 

"Hello !"  he  cried.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Out  for  a  walk." 

"Better  not.    It's  dark  and  lonely  around  here.'? 

Angelica  had  paused. 

"I've  got  to  do  something,"  she  said. 

"Sit  down  and  read,"  he  said,  rather  impatiently. 

"I  don't  like  to  read." 

"Nonsense!  Here,  come  in!  Sit  down!  I'll  give  you 
something  you'll  like." 

But  she  hesitated.  His  bedroom!  Surely  he  didn't  ex 
pect  her  to  go  in  there  ? 

He  did,  though. 

"Come  in!  Come  in!"  he  cried,  and  she  obeyed. 

She  couldn't  really  believe  that  there  was  anything  evil 
or  dangerous  about  this  worried  young  man  sitting  before 
a  desk  covered  with  papers.  He  tapped  the  back  of  a  big 
armchair. 

"Better  take  off  your  hat,"  he  said.  "It  keeps  off  all  the 
light." 

She  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book  he  gave  her, 
pleased  to  see  that  it  had  a  great  many  pictures,  and  began 
dutifully  to  read.  In  spite  of  herself  she  became  interested. 

It  was  the  third  volume  of  a  series,  "Magnificent  Women 
of  the  Past,"  and  it  contained  sketches  of  the  lives  of  the 
Empress  Josephine,  Mme.  du  Barry,  Mme.  de  Montespan, 
Mary  Stuart,  Lady  Hamilton,  and  many  others.  It  was 


64  ANGELICA 

sensational,  impossible  stuff;  but  Angelica  was  neither  a 
well-informed  nor  a  discriminating  reader.  She  was  en 
thralled  by  this  description  of  courts,  of  gallantry,  of  balls, 
fetes,  and  levees,  of  kings,  emperors,  and  princes ;  above  all, 
by  the  radiant  women  who  ruled  over  this  amazing  world. 

She  went  on,  page  after  page,  stopping  only  to  study  the 
portraits  of  the  dazzling  beauties.  She  had  never  imagined 
anything  like  this.  Of  course,  she  had  studied  what  was 
called  history  in  the  public  school,  but  that  was  entirely  con 
cerned  with  battles  and  treaties ;  not  a  word  of  woman,  ex 
cept,  very  rarely,  an  entirely  respectable  heroine.  She  had 
thought  of  kings  and  queens  as  rather  dull  and  solemn  per 
sons,  also  concerned  with  battles  and  treaties.  She  had  never 
conceived  of  such  a  passionate  and  colourful  and  exciting 
life  as  was  revealed  in  this  book.  It  was  a  life  unfortunately 
impossible  in  this  actual  world. 

She  came  to  the  end  of  the  life  of  Mme.  de  Montespan  as 
imagined  by  the  author,  and  closed  the  book,  the  better  to 
reflect  upon  it.  She  sighed ;  she  was  disturbed  by  dim  long 
ings  for  an  existence  of  this  sort.  She  was  full  of  dissatis 
faction  and  preposterous  ambitions.  She  was  so  immersed 
in  the  scenes  of  court  life  and  in  the  pictures  her  imagina 
tion  created  that  it  was  almost  a  shock  to  see  Mr.  Eddie 
sitting  there  in  front  of  her,  still  working. 

She  stared  at  him  thoughtfully.  A  nice-looking  boy — 
perhaps  something  more  than  that.  His  face  was  boyish, 
but  in  no  way  weak;  the  features  were  all  good,  fine,  firm, 
regular.  She  fancied — still  dreaming  of  what  she  had  been 
reading — that  he  looked  like  a  young  prince,  that  there  was 
something  in  his  brow,  in  his  presence,  that  was  noble. 

Her  glance  wandered  round  his  room.  It  was  austere, 
handsome,  immaculately  neat.  She  liked  it ;  it  was  manly. 

Her  roving  attention  had  distracted  Mr.  Eddie.  He 
looked  up,  frowned,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  nice  book.     I  like  it." 


ANGELICA  65 

"That's  right.  I'm  very  glad.  Take  it  with  you  and 
finish  it.  It'll  do  you  good." 

"How  can  it?" 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  survey  her 
thoughtfully. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  "it's  a  very  good  thing  to 
read  history.  I  read  a  great  deal  of  it — lives  of  famous 
men,  and  so  on.  In  the  second  place,  it'll  give  you  some 
idea  of  what  a  woman  can  do." 

"Yes,  I  know ;  only  they're  all  bad  women,"  said  Angelica, 
with  simplicity. 

Eddie  flushed. 

"Yes,  but — everything  was  different  in  those  days.  They 
didn't  have  our  opportunities.  Anyway,  in  some  of  the 
other  volumes  there  are  plenty  of  women  who  weren't  bad 
— Romans,  and  so  on.  What  I  meant  is  that  it  shows  you 
what  an  influence  a  woman  can  have  if  she  tries." 

"I  guess  they  didn't  have  to  try." 

"Of  course  they  did.  They  wanted  to  be  powerful.  They 
wanted  to  be  magnificent.  There  aren't  any  women  like 
that  now — no  more  magnificent  women." 

He  fell  silent,  to  think  for  a  time  of  his  mother,  of  Polly, 
of  the  clerks  in  his  office,  of  girls  he  had  danced  with,  of 
girls  on  the  stage,  of  all  his  limited  feminine  acquaintance. 
Not  a  vestige  of  magnificence! 


ii 

He  was  a  queer  chap,  was  Eddie.  Born  of  a  selfish  and 
frivolous  mother  and  a  morosely  indifferent  father, 
neglected,  left  in  the  care  of  servants  of  the  sort  that  always 
collect  about  an  extravagant  and  careless  mistress,  he  had 
never  acquired  as  a  matter  of  course  those  ideals  which  the 
average  boy  of  his  class  takes  for  granted.  He  had  a  per 
fectly  natural  inclination  toward  truth,  honour,  and  justice, 


66  ANGELICA 

and  toward  clean  living,  but  he  had  had  to  discover  these 
virtues  laboriously,  all  alone.  In  consequence,  he  gave  them 
a  sort  of  perverted  importance.  He  became  somewhat  of 
a  prig. 

And  having  with  such  difficulty  discovered  his  truths,  he 
was  inclined  to  be  a  bit  domineering  and  intolerant  about 
them.  He  was  angry  and  disappointed  at  finding  any  one 
imperfect. 

What  is  more,  he  was  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  finding 
himself  a  person  of  some  importance.  Always  before  he 
had  been  under  a  disadvantage,  always  conscious  of  his 
"queerness,"  of  having  a  mother  who  was  a  laughing-stock 
and  a  father  who  was  a  scandal.  He  was  priggish  and  un 
sociable,  but  he  wasn't  a  scholar.  He  had  done  very  badly 
in  all  the  various  schools  to  which  he  had  been  sent  by  fits 
and  starts ;  and  when  at  last  he  had  been  somehow  got  into 
college,  he  had  done  still  worse.  He  had  hated  his  failure 
there ;  he  had  so  longed  to  be  popular  and  friendly,  and  had 
been  so  markedly  neither. 

So  he  had  gone  into  business  at  nineteen,  and  he  had 
found  himself  at  once.  He  did  amazingly  well.  He  had  a 
clever,  sympathetic,  imaginative  brain,  he  had  good  judg 
ment,  he  knew  how  to  handle  his  people,  how  to  deal  with 
men;  but  at  the  same  time  he  had  not  very  much  common 
sense. 

He  was  like  one  of  those  musical  infant  prodigies,  so 
shamelessly  exploited  by  their  families.  He  had  this  amaz 
ing  talent  for  making  money,  and  the  people  about  him,  well 
aware  of  his  virtue  and  his  innocence,  had  known  perfectly 
how  to  make  use  of  his  ability.  He  was  a  cruelly  driven 
slave  to  his  exalted  idea  of  family  obligations. 

Eddie  wasn't  aware  of  it,  however.  He  was  willing  to 
spend  all  his  youth  in  acquiring  money  for  other  people  to 
spend.  He  took  a  sort  of  pride  in  exhausting  himself.  He 
was  young  enough  and  strong  enough  to  enjoy  affronting  his 
health.  It  seemed  to  him  a  noble  thing  to  support  one's 


ANGELICA  67 

family.  This  was  one  of  his  pet  ideas — ideas  which  he  had 
got  from  books  or  from  other  people's  talk,  none  of  which 
had  developed  quietly  and  wholesomely  from  childhood,  or 
from  experience.  His  instincts  were  sound  and  admirable, 
He  practically  never  had  a  base  impulse ;  but  his  ideas  were 
grotesque.  He  was,  in  some  respects,  a  fool,  and  he  was 
treated  as  fools  must  always  be  treated  by  the  self-seeking. 

There  was  truth  in  Angelica's  fancy.  There  was  some 
thing  in  this  boy  that  was  what  men  chose  to  call  kingly — a 
generosity,  a  fine  force,  a  self-forgetfulness,  a  profound 
sense  of  his  obligations,  even  toward  this  waif,  so  recently 
brought  to  his  attention.  He  believed  it  his  duty  to  help  her. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  business  ?"  he  asked  her  abruptly. 

"Why?" 

"I  think  you'd  do  well.  You  seem  level-headed.  And 
there'd  be  some  sort  of  future  in  it,  instead  of  pottering  about 
here  like  an  old  woman." 

"But  I  don't  like  business.  I  like  to  be  here,  with  nice 
people,  where  I  can  learn  something." 

"That's  quite  right,  of  course;  but  what  will  you  do — 
later?" 

"Well — I  don't  know,  exactly.  I  just  think  that  if  I  can 
— sort  of  improve  myself — some  sort  of  chance  will  come 
some  day." 

She  reflected  a  moment. 

"All  these  magnificent  women,"  she  said.  "They  just 
kind  of  waited  round  for  something  to  turn  up,  didn't  they? 
I  mean,  they  didn't  plan  what  they  were  going  to  be.  I 
haven't  thought  it  all  out;  but  I  mean  to — oh,  to  go  up  all 
the  time,  to  get  to  be  somebody!" 

Eddie,  unconscious  of  his  own  infantile  innocence,  smiled 
at  her  naiveness,  but  admired  her. 

"I'll  see  that  you  get  a  chance,"  he  said.  "And  I'll  help 
you  to  learn,  if  you  like.  If  you'll  study,  I'll  give  you  what 
spare  time  I  can." 

"All  right,"  said  Angelica.    "That'll  be  fine !    Only,"  she 


68  ANGELICA 

added,  "what  I  want  isn't  exactly  things  you  study  out  of 
books.  It's — good  manners,  and  the  right  way  of  talking." 

"You'll  pick  up  all  that  from  Mrs.  Geraldine,"  returned 
Eddie.  "You  couldn't  find  a  better  model.  By  the  way, 
how  did  you  get  on  with  her  to-day?" 

"I  guess  she  liked  me.    She  said  she  wanted  me  to  stay." 

"That's  good!"  he  cried,  very  much  pleased.  "If  Polly'll 
take  an  interest  in  you,  you'll  be  absolutely  all  right.  She's 
a  splendid  woman." 

"But  she's  so  much  older  than  you!"  thought  Angelica. 
"It's  so  queer!" 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "Polly's  one  of  the  best.  Of  course 
she's  not  herself  now,  losing  the  little  chap.  He  was  nearly 
two  years  old,  and  a  fine  little  fellow.  Poor  girl !  She  was 
wrapped  up  in  him.  We  all  were,  for  that  matter." 

Angelica  was  puzzled. 

"But,"  she  said,  "don't  you " 

"Don't  I  what?" 

"I  mean — it  must  be  nearly  as  bad  for  you  as  for  her." 

"What?  Why,  there's  no  comparison  between  a  son  and 
a  nephew." 

"For  Gawd's  sake!    Wasn't  he  your  son?" 

"Of  course  not!  My  dear  girl,  you  didn't  think  I  was 
Polly's  husband,  did  you?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  faltered. 

"I'm  her  brother-in-law.     She's  my  brother's  wife." 

"Oh !    She's  a  widow,  then  ?" 

"No,  no,  no!  He's  alive.  He's  here,  in  this  house;  but 
he's  a  poet,  you  know,  and  when  he's  working  he  shuts  him 
self  up  for  days  at  a  time.  He's  a  queer  chap — a  regular 
genius." 

"That's  pretty  hard  on  his  wife,  I  should  say." 

"That's  what  the  wife  of  a  fellow  like  Vincent  must  ex 
pect.  He  is  a  bit  trying,  but  you  have  to  make  allowances. 
He's  very  remarkable — writes  beautiful  stuff." 


ANGELICA  69 

"I  don't  like  po'try,"  said  Angelica,  who  had  already  taken 
a  dislike  to  this  brother. 

"I'm  not  very  fond  of  it,  either,  but  I  admire  it." 

"I  don't,"  she  persisted. 

"You  shouldn't  say  that.  It's  childish.  Every  one  ad 
mires  poetry." 

She  maintained  an  obstinate  silence.  Eddie  was  rather 
at  a  loss.  He  believed  that  every  one  ought  to  admire  poets; 
he  faithfully  endeavored  to  do  so,  and  had  made  himself 
believe  that  he  had  succeeded.  He  felt  that  his  brother  was 
a  genius,  accountable  to  no  one,  and  not  to  be  blamed  for 
faults  which  seemed  to  Eddie  peculiarly  disgusting  and  un 
manly;  but  he  didn't  know  how  to  make  Angelica  admire 
his  brother.  Even  the  fact  of  Vincent's  genius  was  by  no 
means  established,  and  could  not  be  demonstrated  to  an  out 
sider,  for  he  had  never  published  anything  yet,  nor  attempted 
to  do  so. 

"He's  a  very  interesting  chap,"  Eddie  said.     "Very!" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  he's  not  my  husband,"  said  Angelica. 
"Shutting  himself  up  like  that — wouldn't  suit  me!" 

Eddie  frowned. 

"I  should  think  it  was  a  privilege  to  be  the  wife  of — of 
a  genius." 

Again  Angelica  was  silent. 

"Of  course,'"'  said  Eddie,  "I  don't  pretend  to  understand 
him.  We've  never  seen  much  of  each  other.  He  lived  with 
my  father  and  I  lived  with  my  mother.  He  was  brought  up 
differently — a  Roman  Catholic,  for  one  thing;  then  he  went 
to  an  English  university  for  a  year  or  two,  and  he's  traveled. 
Very  well-educated  chap;  altogether  different  from  me.  A 
scholar,  and  very  artistic." 

"What  does  he  do  for  a  living?"  Angelica  asked. 

"He's  just  beginning  his  career,"  said  Eddie.  "It  is  very 
hard  to  get  started  with  that  sort  of  thing." 

Angelica's  silence  was  eloquent. 


70  ANGELICA 

"Then  who's  this  feller  you  call  'doctor'?"  she  asked 
abruptly.  "Does  he  live  here?" 

"That's  Dr.  Russell,  my  mother's  second  husband." 

"Oh.  I  see !  I  had  you  all  mixed  up.  But  whose  house 
is  this — his  ?" 

"No.     It's  mine." 

"Yours?    Do  they  all  live  here  with  you?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  reddening  and  frowning.  "I  want 
them  to.  I  don't  want  to  live  alone — no  social  life." 

Poor  devil!  He  was  conscious  of  something  ridiculous 
in  his  position,  and  yet  he  was  proud  of  it.  There  weren't 
many  fellows  of  his  age  who  could  have  done  this.  It  had 
meant  taking  fearful  risks,  of  course,  and  working  without 
rest,  but  the  worst  of  it  was  over  now.  He  was  really  promi 
nent  in  his  world;  he  was  a  sort  of  financial  prodigy,  admired 
and  watched.  He  called  himself,  on  his  office  door,  a  stock 
broker.  He  was  on  the  road  to  becoming  a  millionaire ;  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
stop  him. 

"Well,"  said  Angelica,  "you're  awful  good  to  them." 

Again  he  frowned.  They  had  both  grown  suddenly  ill 
at  ease,  at  a  loss  for  words.  Angelica  got  up. 

"Good  night!"  she  said  abruptly.  It  was  her  way  of 
terminating  an  awkward  moment. 

"Good  night!"  Eddie  answered,  rather  absent-mindedly. 

With  her  volume  of  "Magnificent  Women"  tucked  under 
her  arm,  Angelica  went  back  into  her  own  room. 

"He's  a  fool,"  she  said  to  herself,  "keeping  all  those 
people;  but  there  is  something  about  him.  I  don't  know — 
I  guess  he's  kind  of  magnificent  himself." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 


Sharp  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  Angelica  knocked 
at  Polly's  door.  Her  eyes  were  dancing,  she  was  filled  with 
an  exhilarating  sense  of  mischief,  for  she  had  been  having 
breakfast  with  the  doctor,  and  a  regular  rowdy  breakfast 
it  had  been — the  old  delightful  badinage  of  the  street  and  the 
factory. 

When  she  had  come  down  the  dining-room  was  deserted, 
and  she  had  lingered  about  waiting  for  any  one  who  might 
come.  Presently,  in  had  come  the  dapper  little  doctor.  His 
face  had  lighted  up  marvelously  when  he  saw  her  there 
alone ;  and  he  had  told  her  archly  that  she  was  welcome  as 
the  flowers  in  the  spring. 

"That's  all  right!"  Angelica  had  retorted,  belligerently. 
"Never  you  mind  about  me!" 

And  so  the  conversation  had  proceeded,  flowery  compli 
ments  on  his  side  and  a  continuous  show  of  resentment  on 
hers — all  as  it  should  be. 

"You're  a  regular  old  devil!"  she  had  told  him.  "You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!" 

"You're  a  devil  yourself!"  he  had  answered.  "A  young 
devil,  and  a  dangerous  one,  too.  You  could  teach  me  a 
trick  or  two,  I  dare  say !" 

Then  she  had  thrown  a  piece  of  bread  at  him,  and  he 
had  sprung  up  and  smothered  her  in  a  napkin,  almost  up 
setting  her  chair  backward,  and  she  had  given  his  necktie  a 
terrific  pull.  She  did  so  like  this  sort  of  thing! 

She  had  a  familiar  and  delightful  feeling  now  toward 
Polly,  such  as  she  had  so  often  felt  toward  teachers  at  school 

71 


72  ANGELICA 

and  foremen  in  factories — that  she  had  something  up  her 
sleeve,  that  she  was  slyly  outraging  authority. 

"Come  in!"  said  Polly. 

She  was  still  in  bed,  her  breakfast,  untouched,  on  a  tray 
beside  her.  She  looked  stale,  broken,  weary  in  body  and 
in  spirit,  miserably  inferior  to  the  sparkling  girl  who  stood 
waiting  for  her  orders. 

"Good  morning !     Sit  down,"  she  said,  politely  enough. 

She  could  say  nothing  further.  Weary  from  a  sleepless 
night,  sick  with  grief  and  longing,  lonely  as  a  traveler 
stranded  on  a  desolate  shore,  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  to 
communicate  with  any  one  about  her.  She  could  think  of  no 
words  that  they  would  comprehend,  no  answer  from  them 
that  would  give  her  any  possible  solace. 

She  seemed  to  Angelica  a  sallow,  listless  woman  of  forty, 
who  persisted  very  selfishly  in  staring  out  of  the  window  and 
preserving  a  tedious  silence.  She  had  no  faintest  idea  of 
that  anguish  of  a  fine  and  strong  soul. 

"Would  you  mind — — "  said  Polly  suddenly.  "There's  a 
little  leather  book  in  my  desk,  and  a  fountain  pen.  I'd  like 
to  write  a  little." 

Angelica  jumped  up  and  brought  them  to  her  with  alacrity. 
She  felt  very  obliging  this  morning. 

"Anything  else  I  can  do?"  she  asked  cheerfully. 

"No,  thanks.  It's  my  diary.  It's  just  seven  weeks  ago 
that  my  child  died." 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  her  face  had  assumed  an  odd, 
drawn  look. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  thought  Angelica.  "Now  I  suppose  there'll 
be  a  scene.  And  me  feeling  so  happy !" 

But  there  was  no  'scene/  not  even  a  tear.  Polly  had 
long  ago  got  past  that  consolation.  She  put  down  her  little 
book. 

"Will  you  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Russell,  please,  when  she  wants 
to  use  the  car?  I  think  I'll  go  out  this  afternoon." 

Angelica  sped  off,  glad  to  be  released  from  this  terrible 


ANGELICA  73 

ennui,  and  knocked  upon  Mrs.  Russell's  door.  She  found 
her  engaged  in  a  surprising  occupation.  She  was  carefully 
rouging  her  cheeks — that  tough,  weather-beaten,  brown 
skin! 

Her  hair  was  carefully  dressed,  and  she  wore  a  hand 
some  embroidered  white  linen  frock.  She  was  tall  and 
straight,  with  good  shoulders  and  a  fine,  free  play  of  limb. 
From  the  back  she  wasn't  bad,  she  looked  like  a  muscular 
and  athletic  young  woman  until  she  turned  and  one  saw  her 
face.  With  the  rouge  and  the  blackened  eyebrows,  it  had  an 
indescribably  repulsive  look  of  dissipation;  it  was  as  if  a 
man  had  rouged  and  bedecked  himself. 

"Well!"  she  said.     "How  do  I  look?" 

"All  right,"  said  Angelica  dubiously. 

"Tell  me  frankly  if  there's  the  least  thing.  I  must  be 
very  nice  to-day.  W^e're  giving  a  lunch  to  a  young  English 
woman,  a  tennis  champion,  and  I'm  on  the  reception  com 
mittee.  Do  I  really  look  nice?" 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica,  in  a  still  more  doubtful  tone. 

"You  don't  think  so!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell.  "I  can  see 
that!  But,  my  dear,  I  don't  suppose  a  woman  of  my  age 
ever  can  look  very  nice." 

However,  the  glance  she  gave  to  her  reflection  in  the  mir 
ror  was  quite  a  complacent  one.  She  began  covering  her 
face  with  pink  powder,  while  she  talked;  and  grimacing  as 
she  carefully  avoided  the  blackened  eyebrows. 

"How  did  you  get  on  with  Mrs.  Geraldine  ?"  she  asked. 

"All  right;  she's  not  so  bad,"  said  Angelica.  "Only  sort 
of  dopey." 

"'Dopey'?     What's  that?" 

Angelica  flushed. 

"Oh,  like  people  that  take  dope — morphine  and  opium  and 
all  that." 

"But  my  dear  girl,  Polly  doesn't " 

"I  know.  I  only  said  she  acted  like  people  that  do.  It's 
just  a  word  people  use  about  any  one  that's  quiet  and " 


74  ANGELICA 

"Mrs.  Geraldine's  very  reserved — quite  different  from 
me.  I'm  obliged  to  say  everything  that  comes  into  my 
head.  But  I  dare  say  her  life  has  made  her  like  that." 

"Why  has  it?  What  kind  of  life  has  she  had?"  asked 
Angelica,  with  naked  curiosity. 

"My  dear,  you  see,  she  was  married  before  to  a  perfectly 
dreadful  sort  of  man.  He  drank,  and  I  don't  know  what 
else — absolutely  no  good  at  all.  You  see,  she  used  to  be  a 
concert  singer  when  she  was  young.  It's  very  interesting  to 
hear  her  tell  about  her  days  in  Germany,  when  she  studied 
there.  And  then  she  came  back  to  New  York  and  got  an 
engagement  to  sing  in  one  of  the  first-class  restaurants.  She 
really  comes  from  a  nice  family — Ohio  people — not  in  so 
ciety  at  all,  but  nice.  They  weren't  at  all  well  off,  so  I  sup 
pose  they  were  glad  to  have  her  earning  her  own  living. 
Anyway,  they  were  away  off  in  Ohio,  so  they  couldn't  have 
stopped  her  very  well,  could  they?" 

"No,"  said  Angelica,  astounded  at  the  very  idea  of  the 
melancholy  Mrs.  Geraldine  singing  in  a  restaurant. 

"She  must  have  been  quite  a  pretty  girl,"  Mrs.  Russell 
went  on.  "I've  seen  pictures  of  her.  She  says  she  had 
the  most  distressing  experiences  with  men,  following  her,  and 
so  on.  She  says  she  was  really  just  about  to  give  up  the 
restaurant  singing  when  one  night  this  tremendously  hand 
some  man  was  waiting  for  her  when  she  came  out.  She  says 
he  was  so  different  from  the  usual  sort — so  gentlemanly, 
and  so  on ;  and  he'd  been  so  impressed  with  her.  My  dear, 
have  I  too  much  powder  on?" 

"Yes,  on  your  forehead.  Who  was  this  feller — the  hand 
some  one?" 

Mrs.  Russell  stared  at  her  in  perplexity.  Then  she  sud 
denly  recollected  the  subject  of  their  talk. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course!  He  told  her  afterward  that  he  was 
so  much  impressed  with  her  refinement  and  distinction.  I 
suppose  she  did  look  well,  standing  up  on  the  platform  in  a 
white  dress.  And  her  voice  is  charming.  He  walked  home 


ANGELICA  75 

with  her  that  night  and  they  were  married  three  weeks  later. 
Of  course,  as  she  says,  she  didn't  really  know  him  at  all; 
and  he  turned  out  to  be  perfectly  dreadful.  She  went 
through  the  greatest  misery  with  him.  He  was  killed  in  an 
accident;  he  was  in  a  taxi  with  some  chorus-girl.  I  don't 
really  know  much  about  him;  she  doesn't  like  to  talk  about 
him,  but  I've  seen  a  picture  of  him.  He  was  handsome,  but 
coarse,  I  think.  He  was  quite  successful  in  his  business, 
whatever  it  was,  but  he  spent  all  he  made,  and  only  left  her 
a  tiny  little  income.  She  made  it  do,  though,  she  lived  so 
quietly." 

Angelica  was  delighted  to  get  all  this  information.  She 
leaned  against  the  doorway  in  one  of  her  careless,  beautiful 
gamine  attitudes,  her  dark  eyes  on  Mrs.  Russell's  face  with 
an  attention  that  pleased  that  veteran  gossip. 

"She's  a  charming  woman.  Still,  I  was  amazed  at  Vin 
cent,  of  all  people!  She's  so  much  older  than  he — 
years,  and  she  shows  it.  Of  course,  when  they  were  first 
married  three  years  ago,  she  was  quite  different — much 
nicer-looking.  Poor  soul !  She  really  had  a  wretched  time 
with  Vincent.  He's  frightfully  trying.  I  really  think  she's 
been  wonderfully  patient  with  him.  I'll  never  forget  the  day 
he  came  into  my  room  and  told  me  he  was  married.  I 
couldn't  believe  it;  he's  so  fickle  and  erratic.  I  never  ex 
pected  him  to  settle  down.  I  don't  suppose  he  really  has. 
And  when  I  saw  her — simply  a  plainly  dressed  woman  of 
thirty-five !  Of  course,  she  has  a  certain  sort  of  charm  about 
her;  she's  restful.  I  like  being  with  her — but  not  all  the 
time.  I  can't  understand  why  she  clings  to  me  so.  She's 
so  self-reliant." 

How  indeed  was  Mrs.  Russell  to  understand  all  this? 
She  with  her  thistledown  heart,  her  life  of  infantile  amuse 
ment-seeking,  to  understand  the  solitude  of  this  woman  from 
a  small  town,  accustomed  to  the  friendly  faces  of  neighbors, 
of  people  who  had  known  her  all  her  life  and  were  interested 
in  all  that  concerned  her;  this  woman  who  had  twice  given 


76  ANGELICA 

her  love  with  simplicity  and  generosity,  to  have  it  twice  de 
spised,  a  wife  without  a  husband,  a  mother  bereft  of  her 
child?  Polly  hadn't  a  soul  near  her  who  took  the  least 
interest  in  her,  no  one  to  talk  to.  That  was  what  made 
her  so  silent.  She  didn't,  she  couldn't  utter  flippancies ;  she 
longed  for  one  of  her  own  good,  earnest,  kindly  small-town 
women,  who  would  wish  to  listen  and  know  how  to  console. 

And  in  default  of  this,  then  she  must  have  Mrs.  Russell, 
who  could  at  least  talk  about  her  lost  child.  She  could  say 
to  her,  "Do  you  remember  this  day  and  that  day,  this  that 
he  said,  and  how  he  looked?" 

She  had  loved  her  child  with  a  passion  tiresome  to  all  those 
about  her.  She  had  been  absorbed  in  him;  she  had  seen  in 
this  little  boy  not  alone  her  only  child,  but  her  only  friend, 
a  fellow  countryman  in  a  hostile  land.  And  now  he  was 
gone. 

"She's  charming,"  Mrs.  Russell  repeated;  "but  I  should 
never  have  picked  her  out  for  Vincent.  She's  not  the  sort  of 
woman  to  hold  him.  He's  so  odd,  you  know.  He  always 
used  to  say  that  he'd  never  marry,  and  that  he  was  looking 
for  the  perfect  woman,  whatever  he  fancied  a  perfect  woman 
was.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  he  saw  in  Polly.  She's  not 
beautiful,  or  fascinating,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  Of  course, 

there's  her  voice.  It's  lovely,  but  still He  met  her  at 

some  sort  of  tea,  he  told  me,  and  he  said  that  he  was  en 
chanted  by  the  sight  of  her,  sitting  there  in  her  plain  dark 
blue  suit,  with  her  hands  folded,  so  quiet  and  clever,  you 
know,  in  comparison  with  all  the  other  women.  I  must  admit 
I  was  disappointed." 

She  paused  for  a  few  minutes,  to  rub  her  big  square  nails 
with  pink  paste.  When  she  began  to  talk  again,  she  had  un 
accountably  changed  her  point  of  view.  Instead  of  her 
bland  contempt  for  Polly,  she  had,  somehow,  within  her 
queer  soul  developed  a  great  indignation  against  her  son. 

"He  has  behaved  abominably,"  she  said,  with  a  frown.  "I 
can't  understand  him.  For  days  at  a  time  he  doesn't  speak  to 


ANGELICA  77 

her;  doesn't  even  see  her.  And  all  for  nothing!  He  took 
her  up  in  a  caprice,  and  he's  dropped  her  in  another  caprice. 
Do  you  know,  my  dear,  all  the  time  their  child  was  so  ill, 
he  wouldn't  see  it?  He  said  he  could  do  nothing  to  help 
it,  and  he  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  suffering.  And  at  last, 
when  it  died,  the  thing  became  so  scandalous  that  Eddie 
had  to  go  and  actually  force  him  to  come  into  its  room.  So 
he  came  sauntering  in,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said? 
'Thank  God  I  really  hadn't  had  time  to  grow  attached  to 
it  yet.'  " 

"That  was  pretty  bad,"  said  Angelica.  But  she  was  more 
curious  than  shocked;  she  was  eager  to  hear  more  about 
this  atrocious  Vincent. 

"And  now,"  went  on  Mrs.  Russell,  "whenever  the  poor 
soul  begins  to  practise,  he  comes  stamping  out  of  his  room 
and  shouts  down  the  stairs,  'Stop !  Stop !  For  God's  sake, 
stop!" 

"He  must  be  pretty  selfish !" 

"Selfish!  That's  not  the  word.  He  squeezes  every  one 
dry.  He  bothered  me  a  while  ago  until  I  sold  one  of  my 
rings  to  get  money  for  him;  and  as  soon  as  I'd  handed 
him  the  money  he  walked  out  of  the  room  without  even 
saying,  'Thank  you.'  And  when  I  tried  to  speak  to  him, 
he  didn't  even  stop;  just  called  back  to  me,  'I'm  not  in  the 
mood  for  your  conversation  to-day.  I  couldn't  endure  it/ 
He's  a  devil!" 

"A  devil !"  thought  Angelica.  "I  wish  I  could  get  at  him ! 
I  bet  I  could  handle  him !  I'd  like  to  see  him,  anyway.  I'd 
devil  him!  And  maybe  if  he  had  a  wife  with  more  fight 
in  her,  more  spirit,  he'd  be  different.  He'd  be  different  to 
me!"  her  secret  heart  cried.  "No  man  could  ever  neglect 
or  hurt  me.  No  man  could  ever  really  win  me.  I  shall  be 
loved,  adored,  obeyed,  but  I  shall  not  give  much.  I  am 
Angelica,  the  beautiful,  the  proud,  the  free!" 

She  was  very  ready  to  hear  more,  but  that  was  not  to  be. 


78  ANGELICA 

The  aggrieved  voice  of  Courtland,  the  chauffeur,  was  heard 
in  the  hall. 

"Now,  then,  do  you  want  to  be  late?"  he  called.  That 
reminded  Angelica  of  her  errand. 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Geraldine  said  to  ask  you  when  did  you  want 
to  use  the  car.  She  thought  she'd  go  out." 

Mrs.  Russejl  stared  at  her  in  distress. 

"Oh,  pshaw !  I  never  imagined  she'd  want  it.  Tell  her, 
please,  I'll  send  Courtland  back  with  it  in  an  hour." 

"I  don't  think!"  said  Courtland.  "She  better  not  hold 
her  breath  waiting." 

Even  Angelica  was  aware  that  this  was  not  the  proper 
way  for  a  chauffeur  to  address  his  lady.  She  was  surprised 
that  he  wasn't  rebuked.  She  looked  at  him  with  an  indig 
nant  glance,  which  he  returned  with  on'e  of  the  greatest 
scorn. 

"Wait  in  the  car,  Courtland,"  was  all  that  Mrs.  Russell 
said.  "I'll  be  down  directly." 

"He's  a  nice  boy,"  she  told  Angelica,  after  he  had  gone. 
"I  think  a  great  deal  of  him.  I'm  sorry  for  him.  He's 
very  bright  and  intelligent,  but  he  hasn't  had  any  oppor 
tunities." 

"He's  mighty  fresh,"  said  Angelica. 

"You  mean  disrespectful  ?  I  know  it ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  in  this  country,  you  know — a  republic — we  should 
expect  that  sort  of  thing.  We're  all  more  or  less  equals, 
I  suppose,  aren't  we?" 

Angelica  said  yes;  but  she  didn't  think  so,  and  she  knew 
that  Mrs.  Russell  didn't  think  so.  A  game  of  exploitation, 
simply  but  in  a  country  where  every  one  had  the  pleasing 
possibility  of  becoming  one  of  the  exploiters. 

Angelica  went  back  to  Polly  with  the  message. 

"She  says  she'll  send  back  the  car  in  an  hour." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  get  up  and  dress,"  said  Polly.  "We'll 
run  into  the  city  for  lunch.  Do  you  know,  I  feel  better !  I 
think  you're  doing  me  good." 


ANGELICA  79 

She  really  believed  so;  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  fierce 
and  careless  vitality  of  this  girl  charged  all  the  atmosphere, 
penetrated  and  invigorated  even  her  jaded  and  sorrowful 
heart.  It  was  not  the  sort  of  vitality  that  fatigues  and  irri 
tates,  like  the  ceaseless  activities  of  a  little  child.  Angelica 
was  quiet,  for  the  most  part ;  she  didn't  speak  much,  she  sat 
quietly  in  her  chair,  with  the  sort  of  cool  steadiness  that  one 
notices  in  cats.  When  you  spoke  to  her,  it  required  no  effort 
for  her  to  attend,  to  concentrate  her  thought  on  you;  at 
once  her  dark  face  was  alert,  her  ready  mind  in  action. 

With  Polly — although  she  wasn't  aware  of  it — her  manner 
was  exactly  what  was  needed.  She  was  generally  quite  in 
different,  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  absorbed  in  her  own 
affairs ;  but  she  was  instantly  willing  to  perform  any  service, 
or  to  talk,  or  to  listen. 

"Mr.  Eddie  spoke  to  me  about  you,"  Polly  went  on.  "I 
have  a  very  high  opinion  of  his  judgment,  and  he  seems 
to  think  you're  just  the  person  for  me." 

Angelica  was  delighted. 

"Well,"  she  said,  in  her  pitifully  ungracious  way,  "it's 
kind  o'  hard,  not  knowing  your  ways  or  anything;  but  I 
guess  I'll  be  useful." 

Polly  smiled. 

"Help  me  to  get  ready,  won't  you?  I  haven't  been  out 
for  such  a  long  time ;  and  the  doctor  seems  to  think  I  should." 

"This  doctor,  is  it?    Her  husband?" 

"Oh,  no !  He's  not  exactly  a  doctor.  He  invented  a  pat 
ent  medicine,  called  Dr.  Russell's  Old-Time  Rejuvenator. 
That's  why  they  call  him  doctor." 

"I  see !    But  those  things  are  mostly  fakes,  aren't  they  ?" 

Polly  didn't  answer. 

Angelica  enjoyed  helping  her  to  dress.  She  liked  to 
open  bureau  drawers  and  wardrobes  and  see  the  well-ordered 
and  dainty  things,  all  faintly  fragrant.  She  liked  fetching 
the  silk  stockings,  the  fine  little  handkerchiefs,  the  gloves, 


80  ANGELICA 

all  the  accessories  of  a  woman  of  excellent  taste  and  a  decent 
income.  Very  plain,  Polly's  things  were,  but  with  a  most  re 
fined  and  fastidious  plainness.  Angelica,  seeing  and  handling 
them,  gained  a  quite  new  idea  of  a  lady's  requirements. 


ii 

"And  there  we  sat,"  she  told  her  mother  later,  "all  the 
morning,  like  a  couple  of  fools,  waiting  for  the  car.  It  got 
to  be  lunch-time,  and  still  it  hadn't  showed  up.  I  couldn't 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her,  waiting  there  with  her  hat  on 
and  all.  'I  guess  she's  decided  to  keep  her  automobile  for 
herself  to-day,'  I  said.  'It  isn't  hers/  she  said.  'It's  Mr. 
Eddie's,  for  us  both  to  use.'  He's  a  generous  feller,  I 
think." 

The  excursion  was  given  up.  They  had  lunch  down-stairs 
together,  and  in  the  afternoon  they  went  out  for  a  little 
walk — a  tiresome  walk  for  them  both.  Polly  said  scarcely 
a  word.  Angelica  believed  her  to  be  angry,  and  at  five 
o'clock,  when  at  length  the  motor  came  back,  with  Mrs. 
Russell  in  it,  she  looked  forward  to  a  row. 

She  received  another  lesson,  for  Polly  said  nothing.  She 
had  tea  in  the  library  with  her  mother-in-law,  and  she  was 
as  agreeable  and  polite  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  occurred 
to  vex  her. 

At  first  this  conduct  appeared  to  Angelica  cowardly  and 
shockingly  hypocritical;  but  as  she  watched  Polly,  she 
changed  her  opinion.  No,  it  wasn't  hypocrisy;  she  didn't 
pretend  to  be  pleased  and  friendly.  Her  attitude  said  to  Mrs. 
Russell,  in  effect : 

"Do  as  you  please.  You  can't  annoy  me.  I  remain  abso 
lutely  undisturbed." 

And  as  Angelica  observed  them,  first  to  see  how  tea  was 
to  be  drunk,  and  later  to  ponder,  a  new  idea  struggled  to 
life  in  her  mind.  It  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  there  were 


ANGELICA  81 

grades  among  ladies,  and  varieties.  Mrs.  Russell  was  a 
lady,  and  Mrs.  Geraldine  was  a  lady;  but  they  were  of  quite 
different  sorts,  and  Polly's  sort  was  the  better. 

So  there  wasn't  simply  a  set  of  rules  to  follow,  or  a  defi 
nite  standard  to  attain.  There  wasn't  even  one  absolutely 
correct  manner.  How  was  one  to  learn?  How  was  one 
to  imitate? 

"My  Gawd!"  she  reflected.  "There's  more  to  this  than  I 
thought !" 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Perhaps,  if  Polly  had  imagined  that  she  was  serving  as  a 
model,  or  even  that  she  was  being  shrewdly  observed  by 
Angelica,  she  would  not  have  done  what  she  did.  She  would 
have  maintained  the  aristocratic  imperturbability  that  had 
so  impressed  her  companion,  and  she  would  have  concealed 
her  malice.  For  Polly  had  malice — that  agreeable  feminine 
malice,  so  much  more  attractive  than  a  forgiving  heart.  She 
had  a  quiet  relish  for  vengeance,  and  a  long,  long  memory 
for  affronts. 

For  three  years  there  had  been  war  between  herself  and 
her  mother-in-law,  in  which  Polly  had  had  to  struggle  des 
perately  to  avoid  extermination.  The  ruthless  selfishness 
of  Mrs.  Russell  would  have  destroyed  her,  would  have  made 
her  an  instrument  to  serve  her  in  her  pleasure-hunt.  She 
was  not  to  be  reasoned  with,  she  was  too  heedless  and  indif 
ferent  to  weigh  consequences,  too  insolent  to  be  hurt  by  de 
feat,  too  slippery  for  any  sort  of  compromise.  Polly  had 
adopted  a  policy  of  implacability  toward  her.  She  let  noth 
ing  slip,  forgave  nothing,  forgot  nothing. 

They  were  all  at  the  dinner-table  that  evening — Eddie  in 
evening  dress,  and  the  doctor  also,  in  order  to  please  his 
punctilious  and  severe  son-in-law.  Polly  was  an  altogether 
pleasant  object  for  contemplation  in  a  brown  voile  frock, 
while  Mrs.  Russell  had  come  forth  in  an  astounding  thing 
of  orange  and  blue.  It  was  shockingly  expensive,  very  un 
becoming,  and  badly  put  on.  Taken  with  her  straggling  hair 
and  a  pair  of  dusty  and  shapeless  black  velvet  slippers,  it 
formed  an  exterior  not  likely  to  enlist  her  son's  support 
in  the  coming  encounter. 

"Eddie!"  said  Polly.     "What  was  that  man's  name — 

32 


ANGELICA  83 

the  one  we  had  for  the  day  when  the  car  was  broken?  Do 
you  remember?  He  was  such  a  good,  careful  driver,  and 
his  car  was  so  nice  and  clean!" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  asked  Eddie  suspiciously. 

"I  thought  to-day  I  should  have  liked  to  get  him." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Courtland  and  your  own  car?" 
Eddie  persisted  sharply. 

"But  it's  not  my  own  car,  Eddie." 

"Where  was  it?" 

"It  was  in  use.  I  can't  expect  to  have  it  all  the  time,"  she 
said  sweetly. 

"You  haven't  been  out  for  seven  or  eight  weeks,  have 
you  ?"  he  demanded. 

"No;  but  still " 

"That's  not  exactly  'all  the  time' !"  His  face  had  flushed. 
"Did  you  have  the  car,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  perfect  indifference. 

"Now  look  here!"  he  said.  "Can't  you  arrange  better? 
Can't  you  talk  with  Polly  in  the  morning  and  find  out  what 
she  intends  to  do?" 

"Oh,  Eddie,  it  doesn't  matter!"  cried  Polly  in  distress. 

Eddie  saw  the  distress  and  grew  more  angry.  Angelica 
saw  it  also,  and  understood  it. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  when  Polly  goes  out  so 
seldom,  she  might  have  the  benefit  of  her  own  car.  She's 
not  well — you  must  remember  that." 

Mrs.  Russell  was  smiling  her  mechanical  smile. 

"She  shall  have  the  car,"  she  said,  "whenever  she  wants 
it.  If  I'd  known  to-day,  I  shouldn't  have  taken  it." 

"I  meant  to  ask  Angelica  to  ask  you,"  said  Polly. 

"I  did  ask  her,  too,"  said  Angelica. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Russell,  still  smiling.  "You  didn't.  You 
forgot,  I  suppose." 

"Were  you  out  in  it  all  day,  then?"  demanded  Eddie. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  was.  And  now,  if  you  please,  we  won't 
have  any  more  of  this.  You  can  do  your  scolding  in  private. 


84  ANGELICA 

Polly  shall  have  the  car  all  the  time.  Tommy!"  she  said, 
turning  to  her  husband.  "Who  do  you  think  I  had  lunch 
with  at  the  Country  Club  but  Horace  and  Julie  Naylor? 
Poor  Horace!  She  is  such  a  dreadful,  vulgar  little  minx! 
And  yet  she's  so  amusing.  I  must  have  her  down  here 
again." 

"Not  when  I'm  home,"  said  Eddie.  "I  think  she's  dis 
gusting." 

"Pretty  little  woman,  though,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Plenty  of  them!"  said  Eddie. 

Mrs.  Russell  had  got  away  from  the  subject  of  the  motor 
car,  and  rested  satisfied.  It  was  a  question  with  Angelica 
whether,  after  all,  she  hadn't  triumphed.  It  was  a  drawn 
battle,  at  the  best. 

But  before  the  evening  was  over  the  combatants  were 
obliged  to  forget  their  hostility  and  to  ally  themselves  against 
their  common  tyrant.  All  very  well  for  them  to  quarrel 
together,  but  they  didn't  forget  that  Eddie  was  the  source 
of  all  good,  and  that,  to  placate  him,  all  private  feuds  must 
be  ignored. 

They  were  still  sitting  at  the  table  when  a  telegram  ar 
rived,  which  Eddie  opened  and  read  with  a  frown. 

"Confound  it!"  he  said.  "Here's  a  nice  row!  Vincent's 
getting  a  bit  too  bad.  This  really  puts  me  in  a  very  awk 
ward  position.  I  gave  him  a  letter  to  give  to  a  man,  and 
apparently  he  never  did.  I'll  have  to  get  hold  of  him  now, 
and  find  out  what  he  did  do  with  it." 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  so  did  Polly  and  Mrs.  Russell. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  Polly,  with  an  anxiety  that 
seemed  to  Angelica  extreme.  "What  has  Vincent  done?" 

"I  gave  him  a  letter  to  deliver  to  a  man  who  was  leaving 
for  San  Francisco — an  important  letter ;  and  now  the  fellow 
telegraphs  that  he's  reached  there,  and  that  the  letter  hasn't 
reached  him  yet.  He  should  have  got  it  a  week  ago,  before 
he  left. 


ANGELICA  85 

"But  don't  bother  Vincent  to-night !"  implored  his  mother. 
"You  can't  do  anything  now.  Wait  till  morning!" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  bother  him  ?  He's  bothered  me  enough ! 
I'm  not  going  to  humour  him  in  this  damn  fool  idea  of  shut 
ting  himself  up  like  a He'll  have  to  behave  like  a 

human  being!" 

Polly  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Do  wait  till  the  morning,  Eddie,"  she  said.  "You  know 
it's  at  night  that  he  does  his  best  work,  and  it  seems  a  pity 
to  disturb  him." 

"What  about  it's  being  a  pity  to  disturb  me  while  I'm 
eating  my  dinner,  to  try  and  rectify  one  of  his  beastly,  in 
excusable  blunders  ?  No,  by  Jove,  I'm  entitled  to  some  con 
sideration  !  He's  got  to  come  out  and  tell  me  what  he  did." 

"Do  wait!"  cried  Polly. 

He  looked  at  her  in  anger  and  distress. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  he  demanded.  It's  important. 
I've  got  to  find  out  what  he's  done  with  my  letter.  I've 
got  to  know  at  once — even,"  he  added  with  irony,  "at  the 
risk  of  disturbing  Vincent.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  three 
days." 

"Oh,  do  wait!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell. 

"I  won't!"  he  answered. 

Striding  out  of  the  room,  he  began  to  run  up-stairs.  To 
Angelica's  great  amusement,  the  two  women  followed  him. 
She  followed,  too,  of  course. 

"Oh,  Eddie !"  implored  Mrs.  Russell.  "Don't  be  so  head 
strong!  Wait!  I'm  sure  he's  asleep." 

"He  can  wake  up,  then.    It's  only  eight  o'clock." 

"Or  maybe  he's  working,  and  if  you  interrupt  him  he'll 
be  so  vexed !" 

"H e  vexed !"  cried  Eddie,  outraged.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
I'm  the  one  to  be  vexed !" 

Proceeding  at  once  to  his  brother's  room,  he  knocked  at 
the  door,  waited,  and  then  knocked  again. 


86  ANGELICA 

"Vincent !"  he  called.  ''Open  the  door!  I  want  to  speak 
to  you !" 

He  knocked  louder  and  louder.  Polly  again  touched  his 
arm. 

"Eddie  I"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "You're  making  a 
dreadful  noise.  Why  don't  you  wait?  To  please  me!" 

"It  can't  really  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Russell.  "You  couldn't 
really  do  much  at  this  time  of  night." 

"No,"  said  Eddie.  "I  could  have  waited,  but  now  I 
won't.  There's  something  damned  queer  about  it.  He 
can't  help  hearing  this  row." 

"But  you  know  how  peculiar  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Russell. 
"He  wouldn't  answer  if  he  didn't  feel  like  it." 

"I'll  make  him.    I  won't  put  up  with  this !" 

He  had  turned  away  and  was  starting  down-stairs. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  called  his  mother. 

"I'm  going  to  get  Courtland,  to  help  me  break  in  the 
door!" 

Mrs.  Russell  drew  near  Polly. 

"What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do?"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  know,"  Polly  answered  in  distress.  "Even  if  he 
would  wait  till  the  morning,  I  don't  see  just  what  we  could 
do.  Perhaps  we'd  better " 

Mrs.  Russell  nodded. 

Eddie  returned  promptly,  bringing  with  him  the  blond 
young  chauffeur,  pleased  and  alert. 

"Which  door?"  he  asked.  "This?  All  right!  Now, 
then,  all  together!  One " 

"No !"  cried  Mrs.  Russell.    "No,  Eddie.    Wait  a  minute!" 

He  did  wait,  but  impatiently,  while  she  hesitated.  Finally 
she  said  to  him  in  a  half  whisper: 

"Eddie,  he's  not  there!" 

"Not  there?"  he  shouted. 

"Do  hush!     No;  he's  been  away  for  three  days." 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  didn't  want  to  upset  you." 


ANGELICA  87 

"Did  Polly  know?" 

"Yes;  she " 

"And  you  both  stood  there  and  let  me  make  a  fool  of 
myself?" 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  upset  you,  Eddie,  and  neither  could 
Polly." 

"And  you  let  me  knock  and  call  and  bring  up  Courtland. 
Oh,  by  Jove,  it's  too  much!" 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Polly  gently. 

Eddie  didn't  even  look  at  her. 

"I'm  sick  of  this !"  he  cried.  "Sick  of  being  made  a 
fool  of  like  this.  It's  always  the  way  in  this  house;  every 
hand's  against  me.  Nothing  but  deceit  and  trickery!" 

"Eddie!"  said  Polly  firmly.     "You  forget  yourself!" 

The  poor  chap,  recalled  by  her  tone  to  his  standard  of 
propriety — the  very  fount  of  his  exploitation — became  a 
little  quieter. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't.    Where  did  he  go?" 

"To  New  York,"  said  Mrs.  Russell.  "He  had  a  bag  with 
him.  Courtland  drove  him  in." 

Eddie  turned  suddenly  upon  Courtland. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  he  wasn't  there  ?"  he  demanded. 

"How  did  I  know  he  hadn't  come  back  ?"  retorted  Court- 
land,  smartly. 

"Where  did  you  leave  him?" 

"Corner  of  Broadway  and  Forty-Second  Street,"  said 
Courtland,  and,  with  his  unquenchable  impudence,  he  added  : 
"But  you  won't  find  him  there  now !" 

"That'll  do,"  said  Eddie.  "You  can  go.  And  don't  gossip 
about  this." 

Courtland  wheeled  about  briskly  and  began,  quite  leisure 
ly  to  descend  the  stairs,  whistling  cheerfully  and  loudly  be 
fore  he  was  well  out  of  sight.  Eddie  did  not  even  appear 
irritated.  He  had  turned  toward  the  two  ladies  of  his 
household  with  an  ominous  look  in  his  blue  eyes. 

Eddie  was  incredibly  generous,  he  was  kind-hearted  and 


88  ANGELICA 

more  or  less  sympathetic,  but  he  had  in  him,  all  the  same, 
the  making  of  a  first-class  domestic  tyrant.  He  desired,  al 
most  morbidly,  to  be  respected,  and  he  was  ready  to  force 
respect  by  bullying,  if  necessary.  He  knew  what  every  one 
else  knows,  moral  precepts  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding 
— that  the  bully  is  almost  universally  respected. 

Like  all  domestic  tyrants,  he  was  shamelessly  deceived 
and  "managed"  by  the  women  of  his  establishment.  They 
managed  him  clumsily.  Neither  of  them  had  learned  what 
the  doctor  had  learned  at  once — that  Eddie  could  be  manipu 
lated  with  ridiculous  ease  by  the  employment  of  either  of 
two  means.  One  was  to  appeal  to  his  sense  of  justice;  the 
other  was  deferentially  to  ask  his  advice. 

He  liked  to  argue,  to  discuss,  to  weigh,  to  do  finally,  not 
without  pompousness,  whatever  he  saw  to  be  right ;  but  the 
women  never  addressed  this  vulnerable  side.  They  treated 
him  still  as  if  he  were  a  primitive  man,  to  be  coaxed,  hood 
winked,  pampered,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  primi 
tive  in  any  way.  He  got  along  splendidly  in  his  office, 
because  there  it  was  acknowledged  unanimously  that  he  -was 
not  to  be  diddled,  that  he  was  no  fool ;  but  at  home  he  was 
always  treated  as  if  he  were  a  fool,  and  a  slightly  dangerous 
one.  That  is,  of  course,  the  accepted  attitude  toward  any 
master  of  any  house,  but  it  is  not  always  the  most  effective. 

His  anger  began  to  ebb  away  as  he  looked  at  them,  and  a 
profound  dejection  to  take  its  place. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said.  "No  earthly  use !  I  do  the  best 
I  can — for  the  entire  family — to  keep  things  as  decent  as 
possible;  but  I  can't.  I  get  no  help.  I  can't  do  it  alone!" 

"But  Eddie,  my  dear  boy !"  said  Polly.  "It  was  only  to 
spare  your  feelings." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  wasn't.  You  have  some  reason  which  I'll  never  know. 
I'm  not  blaming  you,  Polly.  I  know  you  do  what  you  think 
is  best ;  but  if  you'd  only  be  honest,  regardless  of  what  might 
happen !" 


ANGELICA  89 

He  stopped,  for  he  had  caught  Angelica's  eye.  He 
stopped,  and  his  startled  and  arrested  look  said,  almost  as 
plainly  as  words : 

"I  believe  you  to  be  honest!" 

He  was  as  much  surprised  as  if  she  had  but  that  instant 
appeared.  Indeed,  one  might  quite  truly  say  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  her.  She  looked  so  hardy,  so  bold,  so  inde 
pendent,  in  all  ways  so  different  from  the  two  other  women 
who  had  just  humiliated  him.  He  felt  a  new  and  sudden 
interest  in  her. 


CHAPTER  NINE 


Angelica  was  consumed,  devoured,  by  curiosity.  She  felt 
obliged  to  know  more  of  this  family — of  Vincent,  above  all. 
So  the  next  morning  she  got  up  very  early,  went  down 
into  the  kitchen  regions,  and  sought  out  a  snub-nosed  maid 
who  had  seemed  disposed  to  be  friendly  when  they  had 
passed  each  other  in  the  hall. 

The  girl  wasn't  busy.     She  was  sitting  on  the  back  steps, 
enjoying  the  fresh  morning;  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  Angelica 
she  moved  over,  hospitably,  to  make  a  place  for  her. 
"Sit  down,"  she  said.    "It's  a  nice  day,  isn't  it?" 
Angelica  did  sit  down,  and  for  a  time  was  silent,  looking 
before  her  across  lawns  as  smooth  and  empty  as  those  at 
the  front  of  the  house.     Nothing  at  all  back-doorish  about 
the  outlook;  the  same  air  of  prosperous  peace;  in  the  dis 
tance  other  houses  among  their  lawns,  and  well-trimmed 
trees,  and  overhead  a  lovely  May  morning  sky. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  certainly  a  nice  day." 
She  fell  silent  again,  trying  to  arrange  an  opening  for 
her   questions;   but  the   snub-nosed  maid  spared  her  the 
trouble. 

"Well!"  she  said.     "How  do  you  like  it  up-stairs?" 
Angelica  at  once  perceived  that  the  other  girl  was  curious. 
"Oh-h-h !"  she  said  slowly.     "I  suppose  it's  all  right." 
Another  silence,  during  which  they  appraised  each  other 
according  to  their  tradition.    A  mutual  confidence  was  born. 
"They're  a  queer  bunch,"  said  the  girl.    "I  never  saw  the 
like;  and  I've  been  with  seven  families,  too." 

Here  she  courteously  gave  Angelica  a  brief  history  of 

90 


ANGELICA  91 

her  life  and  condition.  Her  name  was  Annie  McCall,  born 
in  Scotland,  but  brought  up  in  America,  a  member  of  the 
Plymouth  Brethren,  twenty-seven,  and  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried.  She  was  extremely  severe  in  her  views,  which  were 
often  similar  to  Angelica's,  especially  in  regard  to  the  im 
moralities  of  the  rich.  There  was  this  difference,  though 
— Annie  was  confident  that  she  knew  everything,  and  was 
infallibly  right,  while  Angelica  was  anxious  to  learn. 

"If  it  wasn't  that  I  was  going  to  be  married,"  said  Annie, 
"and  saving  every  penny,  I'd  leave.  The  way  they  carry 
on !  I  never  saw  the  like !" 

"Do  they  carry  on?"  inquired  Angelica,  delighted. 

Hadn't  she  always  known  that  rich  people  carried  on? 
Wasn't  she  just  in  a  paradise  of  the  romantic,  where  the 
rich  were  bad,  and  the  poor,  represented  by  herself  and  the 
terribly  respectable  Annie  McCall,  were  good? 

"That  Mrs.  Russell's  the  worst  of  them  all,"  said  Annie. 
"The  bold,  brazen  thing  she  is,  with  her  breeches  and  her 
smoking,  and  her  cursing.  You'd  ought  to  hear  her  curse !" 

"She's  queer,"  said  Angelica  reflectively. 

"Queer !"  cried  Annie.  "Well,  I'd  call  it  more  than  queer ! 
She's "  She  stopped  a  moment.  "She's  bad,"  she  said. 

"Oh!    Bad!     How?" 

"I  don't  like  to  be  spreading  scandal,"  said  Annie,  who 
always  believed  the  worst.  "It's  not  my  nature,  only  that 
you'll  be  working  up-stairs  right  with  her,  and  you  being 
so  young,  it's  only  right  you  should  be  told.  As  soon  as 
ever  I  set  eyes  on  you,  I  said  to  myself  you'd  ought  to  be 
warned.  I  could  see  you  weren't  used  to  such  people.  You 
never  worked  out  before,  did  you?" 

"No,"  Angelica  answered. 

It  was  of  no  use  to  resent  the  'working  out,'  or  to  tell 
Annie  that  she  was  a  'companion,'  because  Annie  knew 
very  well  what  her  place  was.  Angelica's  eating  with  the 
family  couldn't  deceive  her.  They  were  both  servants, 
and  Annie  was  the  better-paid  and  more  respected  of  the 


92  ANGELICA 

two.  Angelica  could  not  honestly  consider  herself  in.  any 
way  superior,  except  in  appearance.  Annie  spoke  rather 
better  than  she  did,  and  had  had  more  schooling;  she  ad 
mitted  to  money  in  two  savings-banks,  and  she  was  en 
gaged  to  be  married.  So  Angelica  submitted  to  a  temporary 
equality,  feeling  morally  sure,  however,  that  the  future  would 
see  her  elevated  immeasurably  above  Annie. 

"How  is  she  bad?"  she  inquired  eagerly. 

"She's  a  divorced  woman,"  said  Annie.  "She  divorced 
her  first  husband,  Mr.  Geraldine,  and  I've  heard  that  he  was 
a  very  nice  man — much  better  than  Dr.  Russell,  I  dare  say; 
too  good  for  her,  very  likely.  Anyway,  I  never  heard  any 
good  of  a  divorced  woman." 

"But  what  does  she  do?"  Angelica  demanded,  rather  im 
patiently. 

"You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  she's  carrying  on  with  that 
chauffeur." 

"My  Gawd!"  said  Angelica.    "Is  she  really?" 

"It's  the  worst  I've  ever  heard  of.  Would  you  believe  it? 
She's  teaching  him  to  play  golf.  They  go  out  in  the  country 
somewhere,  where  they're  not  known.  She's  bought  him  a 
bag  of  clubs,  and  he  goes  around  showing  it  to  all  the 
chauffeurs,  and  telling  them  I  don't  know  what.  He's  a  liar, 
and  I  wouldn't  believe  a  word  he  said,  but  still — well,  when 
you  hear  a  thing  right  and  left — and  there's  those  clubs  and 
all,  and  they  cost  a  terrible  lot — you  can't  help  but  think 
she's  a  regular  bad  woman." 

But  Angelica  did  help  thinking  so.  She  didn't  believe 
that  Mrs.  Russell  was  that  sort  of  bad  woman,  and  the 
longer  she  knew  her  the  more  convinced  she  became  of  her 
perfect  goodness  in  this  one  respect.  Capable  of  the  most 
outrageous  follies,  selfish,  hard  as  flint,  quite  without  scruples 
in  the  pursuit  of  her  own  liberty  and  pleasure,  she  was, 
however,  not  interested  in  men.  Angelica  said  nothing, 
though,  for  she  had  no  proofs  or  surmises  to  bring  forward, 
nothing  but  her  own  instinct. 


ANGELICA  93 

Annie  continued. 

"No,  I  can't  help  thinking  so.  I'm  no  fool.  I've  seen  a  lot 
— you  do,  working  out.  It's  a  pity,  too,  on  account  of  Mr. 
Eddie.  He's  a  nice  young  man,  and  he  works  himself  sick 
for  the  lot  of  them.  No  one  doing  a  stroke  of  work  but 
him!" 

"Don't  that  doctor  work  ?" 

"Dr.  Russell?  He's  a  regular  old  grafter,  that's  what  he 
is." 

"I  saw  him  putting  cigars  in  his  pocket,"  said  Angelica. 

"I've  seen  worse  than  that.  I've  seen  him  going  through 
her  bureau  drawers,  and  taking  anything  he  has  a  fancy 
for.  He'll  come  down  with  a  flask,  fill  it  with  anything  that's 
left  in  the  decanters,  and  take  it  up-stairs  and  drink  until 
he  falls  asleep  on  the  floor.  They  say  it's  terrible  bad  to 
drink  things  all  mixed  together  like  that." 

"Does  he  know  about  her  carrying  on?" 

"He  don't  care,  so  long  as  he's  got  a  good  home  and  a  little 
money  to  spend.  I  never  saw  such  people  in  all  my  life! 
And  they  never  have  any  decent  company.  Mrs.  Ger- 
aldine " 

"Why  do  they  call  her  Mrs.  Geraldine?" 

"Because  that's  her  name,"  said  Annie,  surprised.  "That 
used  to  be  Mrs.  Russell's  name.  It's  Mr.  Eddie's  and  Mr. 
Vincent's  name.  Didn't  you  know?" 

"It's  a  queer  name,"  Angelica  remarked  thoughtfully.  "I 
thought  it  was  her  first  name." 

Nothing  in  the  universe  seemed  specially  queer  to  Annie. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  she  hasn't  any 
friends,  except  out  West,  and  Mr.  Eddie,  he  hasn't  got  any 
time  to  make  any,  and  there's  no  one  ever  comes  here  but 
her  lot  from  that  country  club — a  lot  of  swearing,  drinking, 
smoking  men  and  women.  She  fills  the  house  with  them,  and 
then  Mr.  Eddie'll  make  a  great  row  and  say  he  won't  put  up 
with  them,  and  then  she'll  smile,  that  superior  way,  and 


94  ANGELICA 

say,  'Very  well,  Eddie,  it's  your  house!'  Then,  when  she 
thinks  he's  kind  of  forgotten,  she'll  have  them  in  again." 

"But  what's  the  other  feller  like?"  asked  Angelica. 

"Him!"  cried  Annie.  "Why!"  she  was  at  a  loss  for 

words  to  express  what  she  felt.  "He's "  She  hesitated. 

"He's  crazy,  and  downright  wicked.  They  call  him  reli 
gious.  Sacrilegious,  I  call  it.  Every  once  in  a  while  he'll 
get  a  fit  of  feeling  sorry  for  his  wickedness,  and  he'll  be 
moaning  and  groaning  about  his  soul,  and  working  himself 
up  to  write  his  religious  poems.  Why,"  she  cried,  "it's  as 
different  from  the  real  repentance  of  a  sinner,  such  as  I've 
seen  many  and  many  a  time  in  our  meetings,  as  can  be.  He's 
never  seen  the  light,  and  he  never  will.  He's  lost!" 

"What  does  he  do  that's  wicked?"  asked  Angelica,  avid 
for  details  of  rich  people's  sins. 

"Everything — drink  and  women  and  blasphemy.  Why, 
right  now  he's  gone  off  with  a  girl.  Courtland  saw  him 
meet  her." 

But  no  further  questions  on  the  part  of  Angelica  could 
elicit  any  more  details.  Annie  didn't  want  to  talk  about 
him ;  he  was  what  she  called  a  hardened  sinner,  and  she  con 
sidered  him  best  ignored.  She  began  to  talk  of  Polly. 

"She's  the  best  of  the  lot,"  she  said.  "She's  a  real  lady. 
She's  reasonable.  She'll  never  ask  you  for  all  sorts  of  out 
landish  things,  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  like  the  other 
one.  She's  stingy,  I  must  confess;  she  never  gives  you  a 
penny,  nor  even  an  old  dress  or  a  hat ;  but  at  least  she's  nice 
and  polite.  I'm  sorry  for  her,  too,  losing  that  little  boy. 
He  was  a  sweet  little  thing,  even  if — 

The  cook  appeared  on  the  porch — an  untidy,  bedraggled 
old  Irishwoman. 

"Come  in,  the  two  of  ye!"  she  said.  "Let  your  friend 
come  in  and  eat  a  bite  with  us,  Annie,  if  she's  not  too  proud." 

"You  might  as  well,"  said  Annie.  "They  won't  be  eating 
for  another  half  an  hour,  and  we've  got  just  as  good  as  they 
have." 


ANGELICA  95 

"Better,"  said  the  cook.  "You  can  trust  me  for  that, 
Annie  McCall!" 

They  went,  not  into  the  kitchen,  as  Angelica  had  expected, 
but  into  a  nice  little  dining-room,  to  a  meal  served  and 
eaten  with  decorum  and  propriety,  a  table  daintily  laid,  and 
a  breakfast  beyond  cavil — coffee  with  cream,  beefsteak,  cold 
ham,  new-laid  eggs,  hot  rolls,  corn-bread,  jams  and  marma 
lades,  and  a  fine  bowl  of  fruit. 

The  cook  sat  down  behind  the  coffee-pot,  with  Angelica 
beside  her.  Presently  in  came  the  chambermaid,  the  German 
laundress,  and  a  mild  little  thing  known  as  the  "second  girl"  ; 
and,  at  last,  swaggering,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  Courtland  the 
chauffeur. 

His  eye  fell  at  once  upon  Angelica. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "What's  the  matter?  Did  they  kick 
you  out  up-stairs?" 

"They  sent  me  down  to  see  how  you  behaved  yourself," 
she  answered,  promptly. 

She  was  quite  able  to  hold  her  own  with  this  young 
bully,  and  though  her  manner  was  too  free  and  easy  to 
suit  Annie,  the  others  were  delighted — especially  the  cook. 

"Now  will  ye  be  good?"  she  would  cry  to  the  worsted 
Courtland.  "Now  you've  met  your  match,  me  lad !" 

Angelica  enjoyed  all  this  beyond  measure.  This  homely 
simplicity,  combined  with  the  greatest  comfort,  this  atmos 
phere  in  which  she  lost  her  painful  consciousness  of  inferi 
ority,  in  which  she  was  among  equals  and  able  to  breathe 
freely,  invigorated  and  satisfied  her.  She  grew  more  and 
more  assured,  her  sallies  more  and  more  outrageous,  in  a 
violent  badinage  that  continued  until  the  bell  rang  and  Annie 
ran  off  up-stairs.  She  returned  to  tell  Courtland  that  he  was 
wanted  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  he  groaned.  "It's  a  tennis  tournament  to 
day.  Me  sitting  out  in  a  blame  country  road  in  the  hot 
sun  all  the  afternoon.  My  Lawd!  Don't  I  wish  that  old 


\ 


96  ANGELICA 

fool'd  learn  enough  to  stay  home,  or  go  to  the  city,  to  the 
theayters  and  stores!" 

"And  giff  you  de  chance  to  see  your  schweetheart  ?"  asked 
the  laundress,  coyly. 

"Which  one?"  he  demanded,  boldly. 

"Ye'll  need  a  lot  of  thim,"  said  the  cook.  "For  there's 
no  one  girl  could  put  up  with  ye  long.  Why  are  ye  not 
playing  your  golf  to-day,  me  lord?" 

"She  makes  me  sick!"  he  answered,  angrily.  "There  she 
goes  and  gets  me  interested  in  the  game  and  all,  and  then 
she  drops  it.  Why,  you  know,  she  promised  me  at  the  start 
she'd  train  me  good  and  I  could  go  in  a  tournament.  She 
said  she'd  introduce  me  as  a  friend  of  hers.  She  said  I  was 
built  to  be  a  first-class  player,  and  maybe  I'd  get  to  be  a 
perfessional." 

"Don't  believe  everything  she'll  be  telling  you!"  said  the 
cook. 

"Damn  old  fool !"  he  muttered. 

Annie  reproved  him. 

"You've  got  no  right  to  speak  like  that  about  a  lady,"  she 
said. 

"Shut  up!"  he  said  briefly. 

"Go  along  with  you !"  cried  the  cook.  "She'll  be  waiting." 

"Leave  her  wait!  She  makes  me  wait  enough.  If  she 
don't  like  waiting  for  me,  leave  her  say  so.  I  can  get  plenty 
of  jobs — better  than  this  one,  too.  I  don't  have  to  put  up 
with  nothing  from  her!" 


n 

It  was  only  half-past  eight,  and  Angelica  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  herself.  She  was  in  a  rebellious  and  mali 
cious  mood ;  she  had  been  fired  by  Courtland's  attitude,  and 
she,  too,  wished  to  keep  some  rich  person  wraiting.  It  was 
the  attitude  which  is  the  despair  of  employers — the  spirit 


ANGELICA  97 

in  which  the  young  workman  comes  sauntering  in,  insolently 
late,  not  because  he  wishes  to  lose  his  job  or  because  he  is, 
as  they  put  it,  looking  for  trouble,  but  because,  for  this  one 
day,  this  one  hour,  he  must  assert  himself,  must  be  a  man, 
must  delude  himself  that  he  is  not  inferior,  not  helpless, 
not  driven. 

So  Angelica,  this  morning,  was  ready  to  assert  that  ser 
vants  were  in  all  ways  better  than  those  they  served,  that 
poor  people  were  all  good  and  rich  ones  all  bad.  She  felt  a 
warm  glow  of  friendliness  toward  the  subordinate  class,  and 
a  profound  hostility  toward  their  oppressors.  She  wanted 
to  swagger  about  it,  to  tell  Mrs.  Russell,  loudly,  that  those 
jolly,  comprehensible  people  in  the  kitchen  were  vastly  su 
perior  to  her  in  every  respect. 

She  went  defiantly  about  the  lower  floor,  into  the  library, 
into  the  breakfast-room,  where  the  remains  of  Mr.  Eddie's 
meal  still  stood,  into  the  music-room,  even  into  the  august 
drawing-room,  where  she  had  never  before  set  foot 

"I  don't  care!"  she  said.  "If  they  don't  like  it,  they  can 
tell  me!" 

But  she  met  no  one.  Thwarted  of  a  victim,  she  went 
out  upon  the  veranda  and  sat  down  in  a  rocking-chair,  facing 
the  prospect  already  so  monotonous  to  her — the  neat,  smooth 
lawns,  the  orderly  trees,  the  dignified  houses. 

"Makes  me  sick !"  she  said,  aloud.  "Nothing  to  look  at — 
nothing  to  do!" 

Suddenly  her  chair  was  tilted  back  and  a  hand  laid  over 
her  eyes — a  soft,  cool  hand.  She  pushed  at  it,  roughly,  and 
it  was  lifted,  and  she  saw  bending  over  her  the  bland,  smiling 
face  of  the  doctor.  He  was  in  flannels,  well  cut,  quite  cor 
rect,  but  with  an  air  obnoxiously  dapper.  His  white  head 
was  bare,  and  he  wore  a  flower  in  his  coat. 

"You  let  me  alone!"  said  Angelica. 

"I  can't!" 

"I  guess  you  can!"  she  observed  grimly. 


\ 


98  ANGELICA 

"But  you're  so  pretty!  You've  no  business  to  be  so 
pretty." 

"I  dare  say  I'll  get  over  that  in  the  course  of  time." 

"Seriously,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  finer 
eyes.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  going  on  the  stage?  And 
as  far  as  I  can  judge,  you  have  a  beautiful  figure.  Of  course 
I  don't  know " 

"None  of  that  now!"  she  cried,  flushing  angrily.  "Get 
away  from  the  back  of  my  chair.  I  don't  want  you  hanging 
around  me,  anyway." 

"You're  very  hard,"  he  said.  "Very!  Don't  you  like 
me,  Miss  Angelica?" 

"Not  much." 

"But  why?" 

"Go  and  look  in  the  glass,  grandpa,"  she  answered. 

He  reddened. 

"I  suppose  I  do  seem  old — in  your  eyes,"  he  said;  "but 
after  all,  it's  only  a  question  of  how  you  feel;  and  I  feel  as 
young  as  you  do.  It  takes  a  man  of  experience  and  maturity 
to  appreciate  a  woman.  Boys  can't  understand,  but  a  man 
of  my  age  has  learned  how  a  woman  likes  to  be  treated." 

"Well,  he's  learned  too  late,  then,"  said  Angelica. 
"They'll  never  give  him  a  chance  to  show  off  what  he 
knows." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  do,"  he  retorted,  preening  himself.  "I 
could  tell  you  of  more  than  one  little  girl  who  doesn't  think 
I'm  too  old.  You,  too,  when  you  know  me  better,  you'll  find 
me  just  as " 

"Now,  look  here,  grandpa,"  said  Angelica.  "What  are 
you  leading  up  to?  Because  if  you  think  you  can  get  fresh 
with  me,  you've  made  a  big  mistake.  Guess  again,  grand 
pa!" 

"Don't  call  me  that !"  he  protested.     "It's  vulgar." 

She  looked  at  him  scornfully,  then  turned  her  back  upon 
him  and  once  more  regarded  the  tiresome  view.  The  doc 
tor,  after  a  glance  at  her  severe  profile,  gave  up  his  attempt 


ANGELICA  99 

and  changed  his  attitude.  He  sat  down  jauntily  astride  of 
a  chair  and  began  joking.  She  never  tired  of  that,  and  al 
though  he  did,  although  he  grew  painfully  weary  of  this 
rough  and  silly  jesting,  he  was  compensated  by  the  sight  of 
her  brilliant  face. 

But  inevitably  he  began  to  grow  bolder  again. 

"My  dear,  your  shoe's  untied!"  he  said  suddenly. 

He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  and  clasped 
her  ankle  in  his  hand.  She  gave  him  a  vigorous  push  with 
her  foot  that  sent  him  rolling  over  backward,  knocking  his 
white  head  against  a  chair.  She  laughed  immoderately,  with 
abandon,  all  the  more  because  he  was  so  furious,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  eyes  closed. 

And  it  was  just  at  this  minute  that  Eddie  came  out,  to 
see  his  father-in-law  struggling  to  his  feet,  while  Angelica 
shrieked  with  laughter. 

"What's  this?"  he  demanded  severely. 

No  one  answered,  but  Angelica's  mirth  was  checked. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked  again,  with  still  greater 
displeasure. 

"I  slipped,"  said  the  doctor.  "Where's  your  mother,  my 
boy?" 

This  was  an  attempt  to  disarm  Eddie  by  reminding  him 
that  the  doctor  was  his  mother's  husband,  and  therefore 
venerable ;  but  it  was  not  successful.  He  received  no  reply, 
and  went  sauntering  off  with  exaggerated  jauntiness, 
watched  by  Eddie  till  he  was  out  of  sight 

Then  Eddie  turned  to  Angelica. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter!"  she  answered.  "I  can  take  care 
of  myself  all  right." 

"I  wasn't  apologizing  for  my  father-in-law's  conduct.  I 
meant  I  was  sorry  that  you 

"Me?"  she  cried,  indignantly.     "I  didn't  do  anything!" 

"I  hate  to  think  of  you  stooping  to  this  sort  of  thing — this 
silly  vulgarity.  It  isn't  like  you.  It  isn't  worthy  of  you!" 


ioo  ANGELICA 

The  former  factory  girl,  with  her  long  memory  of  scenes 
so  much  more  vulgar  and  silly  than  this — of  faces  slapped 
and  insults  replied  to  with  most  forcible  language — stared, 
astounded,  at  Eddie,  at  his  displeased  and  disappointed  face. 

"You  ought  to  be  more  dignified,"  he  said.  "You  say 
you  want  to  improve  yourself.  Then,  in  that  case,  this  sort 
of  thing- 
She  really  had  seen  nothing  reprehensible  in  her  conduct, 
nothing  to  be  censured.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  a  girl  in 
her  situation  mustn't  spend  her  time  in  "fooling"  with  the 
men  of  the  household;  but  to  disapprove  it  on  high  moral 
ground?  .  .  .  ! 

However,  the  word  "dignified"  gave  her  a  clue.  It  was 
those  magnificent  women  he  had  in  mind!  She  was  falling 
short  of  their  standard,  and  therefore  disappointing  Eddie. 
She  wasn't  being  magnificent. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  see!"  she  said  thoughtfully.     "All  right!    I'll  try!" 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "I  knew — if  it  were  pointed  out 
to  you — that  that  sort  of  thing  is  so  out  of  keeping  with 
your  character " 

"With  your  face,"  he  meant.  He  meant,  without  being 
aware  of  it,  that  any  sort  of  coarseness  in  a  girl  so  lovely 
and  desirable  was  a  shocking  offense  to  him. 

Angelica  left  him,  inspired  by  the  loftiest  thoughts.  She 
was  resolved  to  redeem  this  day  begun  so  inauspiciously, 
breakfasting  with  the  servants,  knocking  over  the  white- 
haired  doctor.  She  pictured  a  new  Angelica,  stately  and 
aloof. 

"He  does  me  good — that  feller!"  she  reflected. 


CHAPTER  TEN 


It  now  became  the  aim  of  Angelica's  life  to  satisfy  Eddie. 
She  felt  that  his  standard  was  the  right  one,  however  pain 
fully  high  it  might  be,  and  that  he  was  genuinely  con 
cerned  with  helping  her  to  attain  it.  And  she  felt  that,  in 
spite  of  his  youth  fulness  and  his  somewhat  grandiloquent 
air,  he  was  a  remarkable  and  an  admirable  man. 

The  more  she  saw  of  him,  the  more  she  admired  him.  She 
was  a  shrewd  enough  observer,  yet  she  never  detected  in  him 
a  single  lapse  from  his  own  rigid  principles.  What  he  set 
out  to  do,  he  did ;  what  he  determined  to  be,  he  was.  She  had 
not  knowledge  or  experience  enough  to  see  that  he  was  ig 
norant,  crude,  and  childlike ;  she  could  see  only  his  force,  his 
strength  of  will,  the  earnestness  of  his  ambition,  and  his  com 
plete  ingenuousness. 

He  went  directly  to  Polly.  He  told  her  that  Angelica  was 
ambitious,  and  that  he  wished  to  help  her. 

"So  any  evenings  that  you  don't  need  her,"  he  said,  "she 
can  come  to  me  and  study.  I'll  look  out  some  books  for 
her." 

Polly  smiled  and  agreed. 

"It's  another  of  poor  Eddie's  Utopian  schemes,"  she  said 
to  her  mother-in-law.  "I  don't  know  what  he  expects  to  ac 
complish  with  the  girl." 

"I  only  hope  she  won't  accomplish  anything!"  said  Mrs. 
Russell.  "She's  very  pretty,  and  Eddie's  so  susceptible.  Of 
course,  he  thinks  it's  a  sin  to  think  of  a  girl  as  a  girl,  but 
still " 

They  didn't  at  all  like  this  educational  project,  but  Mrs. 

101 


102  ANGELICA 

Russell  was  too  careless  and  Polly  too  sensible  to  interfere. 
Besides  which,  it  didn't  look  really  alarming.  Eddie  was  not 
the  sort — it  would  have  been  impossible  to  Eddie — to  con 
template  illicit  relations  with  Angelica,  and  with  his  ex 
treme  propriety  he  was  certainly  not  likely  to  consider  mar 
rying  her.  It  was  simply  an  annoyance  to  have  her  thus 
exalted.  They  were  irritated  and  somewhat  contemptuous, 
but  they  said  nothing.  They  took  care  never  to  discuss  Eddie 
in  her  presence. 

It  was  a  recognized  fact  that  she  and  Eddie  were  allies. 
They  were  oddly  alike  in  many  ways.  They  had  the  same 
sort  of  careless  austerity;  neither  of  them  cared  whether  a 
chair  were  comfortable  or  not,  the  soup  hot  or  cold,  the 
weather  propitious;  they  disdained  fatigue,  were  ready  to 
work  all  day  and  all  night  to  achieve  an  object,  and  had  a 
fierce  and  driving  ambition  for  power  and  distinction.  But 
Angelica  was  coarser  and  stronger,  while  Eddie  was  more 
sensitive  and  very  much  more  scrupulous.  He  was  ruled 
by  ideas,  she  was  ruled  by  her  vigorous  impulses. 

Polly  very  rarely  wanted  Angelica  in  the  evening,  and 
Mrs.  Russell  dared  not  summon  her,  so  that  it  became  quite 
a  usual  thing  for  her  to  go  up-stairs  with  Eddie  directly 
after  dinner  and  settle  down  with  some  valuable  book  of  his 
selection.  He  didn't  make  any  attempt  really  to  teach  her; 
she  could  as  well  have  sat  in  her  own  room  to  read,  but 
that  would  have  entirely  destroyed  the  character  of  the 
thing  for  Eddie.  She  must  be  sitting  there,  under  his  eye, 
docile,  earnest,  his  pupil. 

Sometimes  he  worked,  sometimes  he  was  himself  engaged 
with  one  of  his  instructive  books,  which  he  bought  in  sets; 
but  whatever  it  was,  he  very  rarely  spoke  to  her.  He  main 
tained  his  pose  of  imperturbability,  which  she  knew  well 
enough  to  be  only  a  pose. 

It  didn't  take  her  long  to  see  how  it  was  with  him.  She 
understood  that  sort  of  thing  so  well !  She  saw  how  drawn 
he  was  to  her,  how  she  stirred  his  ardent  blood;  and  she 


ANGELICA  103 

rejoiced  and  brought  out  all  her  tricks  to  torment  him. 
When  she  wanted  something  explained,  she  would  bring  her 
book  to  him  and  stand  beside  him,  leaning  against  him,  bend 
ing  over  so  that  her  hair  brushed  his  cheek.  She  had  atti 
tudes  that  were  poems  of  allurement;  there  were  certain 
tones  in  her  voice,  certain  little  gestures,  which  she  saw  en 
thralled  and  disturbed  and  shocked  him. 

"She  doesn't  know  what  she's  doing!"  he  would  think. 

Well,  she  didn't  exactly.  She  was  well  enough  aware 
of  the  effect  of  her  naughty  wiles  upon  him,  and  upon  other 
men ;  but  she  had  never  experienced  the  thing  herself,  never 
yet  been  transfixed  by  a  dart  such  as  she  delighted  to  shoot. 
At  first  she  was  proud  and  gleeful;  but  after  she  had  seen 
his  painful  effort  to  retain  his  dignity — his  majesty,  one 
might  say — undisturbed,  she  felt  a  sort  of  respectful  pity  for 
him,  and  desisted. 

She  had  no  illusions;  she  didn't  fancy  that  his  inclina 
tion  toward  her  was  love;  she  never  dreamed  of  marrying 
him,  and  she  understood  him  and  herself  too  well  even  to 
contemplate  any  other  sort  of  alliance.  She  ceased  her  tricks, 
became  honest  and  sober  with  him,  and  sat  at  his  feet  to 
learn  what  she  could.  The  knowledge  that  she  was  desirable 
in  his  eyes  did  good  to  Angelica,  for  it  gave  her  more  con 
fidence,  more  hope  of  attaining  ultimate  magnificence.  She 
showed  him  her  natural  self,  inquisitive,  eager,  strong,  ready 
for  any  sacrifice,  any  denial,  that  might  help  her  in  her 
progress,  a  nature  at  once  ardent  and  calculating,  a  cool, 
shrewd,  subtle  Italian  mind. 

As  for  herself,  she  wasn't  in  the  slightest  degree  attracted 
by  Eddie.  She  admired  him  and  respected  him,  she  felt  a 
warm  friendliness  toward  him,  but  no  smallest  trace  of 
love  or  desire.  It  wasn't  possible;  he  wasn't  the  man  for 
her ;  he  wasn't  her  sort. 

In  contrast,  and  running  parallel  with  this  life  of  effort 
and  progress  under  Eddie's  direction,  ran  the  other  existence, 
the  lazy,  soft  life  of  the  harem.  One-half  of  her  time  she 


104  ANGELICA 

was  studying,  reflecting,  earnestly  considering  her  manners 
and  deportment;  the  other  half  she  spent  with  Mrs.  Russell 
and  Polly,  in  a  thoroughly  demoralizing  uselessness. 

Laziness  was  Polly's  darling  vice.  She  had  long  passed 
the  stage  of  struggling  against  it;  now  she  hugged  it,  en 
joyed  it  without  shame.  She  lay  in  bed,  in  a  chaise-longue, 
or  on  a  sofa,  hour  after  hour,  smoking  cigarettes,  lost  in 
her  sorrowful  reveries.  Where  on  earth  was  she  to  find  an 
incentive  to  activity?  There  was  no  one  whom  she  might 
love  and  serve;  no  effort  was  necessary  to  obtain  all  the 
luxuries  possible.  Her  old  love  of  her  art  lay  buried  be 
neath  her  grief;  she  felt  that  she  had  all  that  she  could 
ever  expect  in  life. 

She  had  got  quite  used  to  Angelica  now,  and  more  or  less 
fond  of  her.  She  liked  to  have  the  girl  near,  sitting  with 
one  of  Eddie's  books;  absorbed  in  it,  yet  instantly  ready 
for  any  service  required. 

"Do  you  know,  Angelica,"  Polly  said  to  her  one  day, 
"the  very  nicest  thing  about  you  is  that  you  never  fidget !" 

Angelica  considered  that. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  know  I  don't.  I  see  other  people 
squirming  and  wriggling  all  the  time,  and  I  wonder — I  don't 
know — I  am  quiet;  but  I've  got  lots  of  life  in  me." 

"I  should  say  you  had!  Just  my  antithesis,  aren't  you? 
I'm  quiet,  too,  but  it's  because  I  haven't  any  life  in  me  at 
all." 

"Well,"  said  Angelica,  displaying  no  interest  in  Polly's 
state  of  mind,  and  reverting,  as  she  generally  did,  to  her 
self,  "I'm  always  kind  of  expecting  something  to  happen. 
So  I  just — wait." 

Her  naive  egoism  never  affronted  Polly.  Disillusioned, 
she  would  have  been  rendered  uneasy  by  affection  or  great 
interest;  she  liked  it  this  way,  with  no  pretense  on  either 
side,  nothing  to  keep  up.  She  never  affected  any  interest 
in  Angelica,  although  she  couldn't  attain  her  companion's 
supreme  self-absorption.  She  was  obliged,  now  and  then, 


ANGELICA  105 

to  ask  a  question;  in  fact,  she  couldn't  help  being  curious 
about  Angelica,  who  was  not  at  all  curious  about  her. 

She  was  sometimes  a  little  piqued  by  the  young  creature's 
cool  assumption  that  she  was  of  no  interest.  She  knew,  as 
all  other  people  know,  what  lay  within  herself,  how  different 
she  was  from  every  one  else  who  had  ever  lived,  how  inter 
esting  she  was,  both  in  her  qualities  and  her  experiences,  a 
thing  true  of  every  one;  and  yet  how  impossible  it  is  to 
make  others  see  it ! 

Polly  was  a  woman  of  curious  temperament — intense, 
sensitive,  flexible,  and  yet  protected  and  perhaps  isolated  by 
a  certain  cool  good  sense.  She  was  an  artist,  a  musician,  a 
woman  who  had  twice  loved  and  twice  been  most  cruelly 
deceived  and  rebuffed,  who  had  suffered  and  thought  very 
much  and  very  bitterly,  if  not  very  profoundly ;  but  she  was 
also  the  simple  daughter  of  a  small  town,  a  woman  who  liked 
a  long  and  leisurely  gossip,  who  had  sane  and  healthy  blood 
flowing  beneath  her  idle  hypochondria.  Woman  of  the 
world,  smoker  of  cigarettes,  reader  of  the  most  astounding 
books,  seasoned  as  she  was,  disillusioned,  heart-sick,  a  bit 
theatrical,  perhaps,  in  her  utter  indifference,  she  was  never 
theless  the  same  Polly  who  would  have  heartily  enjoyed  a 
day  spent  in  jelly-making,  or  nut-gathering,  or  sewing  with 
a  friendly  and  talkative  group  of  her  own  Ohio  women. 

She  had  very  little  in  common  with  Mrs.  Russell.  They 
didn't  really  like  each  other,  but  being  unoccupied,  and  in 
somewhat  similar  circumstances,  they  got  on  well  enough  to 
gether.  The  whole  household  got  on  together,  in  fact. 
There  were  intrigues,  incredibly  petty  and  subtle  struggles 
and  plots,  but  nothing  overt. 

The  other  two  women  accepted  this  new  favourite  of 
Eddie's  with  resigned  tolerance;  they  made  use  of  her,  but 
they  were  quite  kind.  They,  too,  had  an  influence  on  An 
gelica;  they  taught  her  something,  a  little  of  the  compromise 
that  must  be  made  with  life.  You  didn't  have  to  love  people 
or  to  hate  them — you  had  only  to  get  on  with  them.  She 


io6  ANGELICA 

could  not  but  admire  their  charming  good-humour,  their 
complete  lack  of  the  aggressiveness  which  the  people  she  had 
known  before  had  been  obliged  to  cultivate.  They  were  all 
three  so  comfortable  together! 


n 

It  was  one  of  those  summer  afternoons  which  had  such 
an  indescribable  charm  for  Angelica.  She  wasn't  used  to 
idleness,  and  it  delighted  her,  this  sitting  about,  with  a  long 
stretch  of  empty  hours  ahead,  to  fill  as  one  pleased.  They 
were  all  in  Mrs.  Russell's  big,  airy  room,  with  the  green 
blinds  drawn  down  and  flapping  in  a  steady  little  breeze.  It 
was  very  hot,  and,  as  was  their  custom  when  Eddie  was 
not  home,  they  were  in  undress.  Polly  hated  the  hot 
weather,  and  didn't  care  to  move ;  she  lay  on  a  rattan  couch, 
smoking,  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  with  an  electric  fan  blow 
ing  across  her. 

Mrs.  Russell  was  stretched  out  in  a  deck  chair;  beside  her 
stood  a  small  table  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  siphon 
of  soda,  of  which  she  partook  from  time  to  time — very 
small  drinks,  but  tolerably  frequent.  Her  face  was  crimson; 
her  hair,  for  greater  coolness,  was  pulled  back  into  a  tight 
knot;  she  wore  very  little  but  a  lace  combing-jacket  and  a 
short  silk  petticoat,  which,  as  she  sat  with  her  long  legs 
crossed,  showed  a  great  expanse  of  gray  silk  stocking.  She 
•was  a  freak,  a  fright,  whatever  you  like,  but  she  had  a  cer 
tain  ineffaceable  distinction.  Her  voice,  her  gestures — An 
gelica  watched  her  with  interest.  She  was  telling  jokes, 
outrageous  stories  that  convulsed  the  other  two  with 
laughter. 

"My  dear!  Where  do  you  hear  such  things?"  Polly  pro 
tested  after  each  one,  and  lay  waiting  for  more. 

Angelica  rejoiced  in  a  lovely  cast-off  garment  of  Mrs. 
Russell's,  light  as  gossamer,  pale  yellow,  with  taffeta  bows. 


ANGELICA  107 

Its  coquetry  was  incongruous  with  her  dark  and  somber 
face,  but  it  was  bewitching,  nevertheless.  She  sat  in  a  low 
rocking-chair  opposite  a  mirror,  content  to  look  now  and 
then  and  to  speculate  endlessly  upon  the  destiny  of  that  thin, 
languorous  figure,  dressed  like  a  rich  person,  lounging  like 
one,  beautiful,  mysterious,  alluring.'  Her  bare  arms  were 
clasped  behind  her  head,  in  that  attitude  which  so  well  re 
veals  the  line  of  neck  and  bust.  Seen  from  the  door,  in 
profile,  she  would  have  been  an  exquisite  picture. 

And  she  was  seen  from  the  door.  Mrs.  Russell,  facing  in 
that  direction,  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  so  that  Angelica 
turned  and  saw  a  man  standing  there. 

He  was  a  big,  heavy,  swaggering  fellow,  in  baggy  knick 
erbockers  and  an  old  shooting-jacket  hanging  loosely  from 
his  powerful  shoulders,  with  a  fierce,  hawk-like  face  and 
bright  gray  eyes.  He  looked  at  them  with  a  sort  of  con 
temptuous  amusement. 

"Vincent!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Eddie's  been  so— 

"Eddie  be  damned!     How  are  you,  Polly?" 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  Vincent,"  she  answered  with  sim 
plicity. 

"You're  looking  better,"  he  assured  her  in  friendly  man 
ner.  "And  mamma?" 

"Don't  be  so  provoking!"  she  cried,  trying  to  be  angry, 
but  at  heart,  as  one  could  plainly  see,  filled  with  idiotic  ad 
miration  for  this  big,  impudent  son.  "Don't  pretend  to  be 
so  calm  and  cool!  What  are  you  going  to  tell  Eddie?" 

Angelica  jumped  up  from  her  chair,  and  then  sat  down 
again.  Vincent  took  no  notice  of  her. 

"Let's  have  a  drink,"  he  said,  and  sat  down  beside  his 
mother.  "Ah!  And  now  another!" 

He  was  certainly  theatrical,  playing  to  his  little  audience 
the  part  of  the  idolized  conqueror,  the  man  to  whom  every- 


io8  ANGELICA 

thing  is  permitted;  but  he  did  it  well.  He  could  carry  it 
off ;  it  was  evident  that  he  had  them  both  in  his  pocket. 

He  talked  to  them  with  conscious  mastery.  His  mother 
was  silly  and  adoring;  Polly,  in  spite  of  all  her  reserve 
and  her  deep  and  hidden  resentment  against  him,  couldn't 
hide  a  sort  of  charmed  interest.  They  listened  to  him  and 
looked  at  him,  while  he,  sprawled  out  in  his  chair,  smoked 
a  pipe  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 

And  then,  suddenly,  just  for  an  instant,  his  falcon  glance 
rested  upon  Angelica,  upon  the  swarthy  face  that  turned 
pale  beneath  it.  Her  heart  stood  still ;  she  stared  at  his  bold, 
careless  face  with  a  feeling  that  was  almost  like  terror.  She 
had  never  seen  his  like  before,  never  seen  so  free  and  strong 
a  spirit  in  any  human  creature. 

She  had  met  her  match,  and  she  knew  it.  She  could 
never  conquer  him!  It  was  a  sensation  unique  in  her  life; 
never  imagined  before,  never  to  be  experienced  again.  She 
forgot  herself  completely,  didn't  give  a  thought  to  the  im 
pression  she  might  be  making  upon  this  man.  She  thought 
only  of  him,  watched  him,  listened  to  him,  in  a  sort  of 
stupour. 

He  didn't  look  at  her  again,  but  she  knew  that  he  was 
conscious  of  her,  and  that  he  included  her  among  his  audi 
ence.  He  went  on,  always  like  an  adored  actor  secure  of 
rapt  attention,  telling  them  things,  painting  vivid  pictures 
for  them.  In  the  midst  of  his  finest  phrases,  he  would  use 
the  coarsest  and  bluntest  of  old  words,  abruptly,  like  a  gross 
insult  in  a  love  sonnet.  He  aimed  deliberately  to  startle  and 
amaze,  and  he  succeeded.  The  three  women  listened  spell 
bound  ;  Angelica  above  all,  quite  caught  in  his  net. 

He  told  them  about  a  play  he  had  seen  the  night  before, 
and  an  actress  in  it  who  had  caught  his  fancy. 

"That  woman !"  he  said.  "Good  God !  A  fair,  thin  vir 
gin — inviting  with  her  troubled  eyes  the  fiercest  lusts — still 
innocent,  still  trembling  on  the  threshold  of  her  life.  What 
an  actress !  Polly,  you  would  have  enjoyed  her  work." 


ANGELICA  109 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  Vincent." 

"I'll  take  you  some  evening  soon.  But  no,  I  forgot.  I'm 
going  away." 

"Oh,  Vincent,  again?"  cried  his  mother. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  for  a  long  time." 

Polly,  so  many  times  hurt,  so  long  ignored,  remained 
quite  still  and  indifferent.  Only  Angelica  saw  her  thin 
fingers  clench,  and  then  open  listlessly.  She  didn't  open  her 
eyes  or  speak. 

"Where?"  asked  his  mother. 

"You  ask  me?"  he  demanded.  "I  am  a  man.  Pray, 
where  should  I  go?" 

No  one  was  able  to  answer,  and  he  frowned  again. 

"There's  only  one  destination  possible,"  he  said;  "one 
spot  on  earth  that  draws  toward  it  all  of  us  who  are  men 
— a  place  of  blood  and  destruction,  of  utter  loneliness  and 
frightful  agony,  where  we  rush  to  embrace  that  most  mad 
dening  and  most  tender  of  mistresses— 

"Oh,  Vincent!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell,  distressed.  "Don't 
talk  that  way  before  Polly !" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"A  mistress  who  breaks  all  hearts — of  whom  all  loving 
souls  are  mad  with  jealousy — a  mistress  to  whom  no  man 
is  unfaithful — beautiful  Death !"  he  cried. 

His  mother  gave  a  sort  of  shriek. 

"Vincent!    You're  not  going  to  kill  yourself?" 

"No!' he  cried.    "No!    To  kill  my  brother !" 

"Kill  Eddie?" 

"Don't  be  such  a  damned  fool!"  he  said,  irritably,  an 
noyed  that  she  had  misunderstood  and  cheapened  his  climax. 
"I'm  going  to  the  war." 

Until  that  moment  they  had,  to  tell  the  truth,  taken  very 
little  notice  of  this  war.  It  had  been  going  on  for  some 
weeks,  with  great  head-lines  in  the  papers,  but  in  their  iso 
lated  group  it  had  very  little  significance.  Their  routine 


no  ANGELICA 

was  in  no  way  interrupted.  Eddie  worried  over  it,  but 
then  he  worried  over  everything.  He  said  it  was  disastrous 
for  the  market.  However,  they  were  quite  sure  that  he 
would  bring  home  money  for  them,  if  not  in  one  way,  then 
in  another,  and  they  weren't  really  disturbed. 

And  now  suddenly  the  war  and  Vincent  came  bursting 
in  upon  them  with  violence. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 


Vincent,  of  course,  had  to  go  out  of  the  room  at  once 
after  that  declaration,  leaving  the  three  women  astounded. 

Mrs.  Russell  was  the  first  to  bestir  herself.  Perhaps  be 
cause  she  was  conscious  that  her  emotions  were  so  feeble, 
she  always  strained  to  emphasize,  to  exaggerate  them.  She 
at  once  affected  a  great  excitement.  She  began  rushing 
about,  under  the  pretense  of  "getting  Vincent's  room  ready," 
and  telling  the  servants  that  Mr.  Vincent  was  home. 

"And  he's  going  to  the  war,  Annie!"  she  cried.  "Isn't 
that  dreadful?" 

Polly  took  no  part  in  this  movement.  She  went  back  into 
her  own  room  and  sat  down  before  her  dressing-table. 

"I'll  do  my  own  hair,  Angelica,"  she  said,  with  a  new 
frigidity  in  her  manner  that  surprised  her  companion. 

"All  right!"  Angelica  answered,  with  a  trace  of  sulkiness. 

"You  can  go  if  you  like,"  Polly  went  on.  "I  won't  need 
you  any  more  to-night.  I  think,  Angelica,  you'd  better  have 
your  dinner  in  your  room.  Mr.  Geraldine  might  not  like  a 
stranger  at  the  table  the  first  evening  he's  home." 

"All  right!"  said  Angelica  again,  turning  obediently  to  the 
door. 

But  she  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  a  most  provoking 
smile — to  show  Polly  that  she  knew  the  cause  of  all  this. 

She  went  trailing  back  to  her  own  room  in  the  yellow 
negligee,  and  shut  herself  in,  happy  enough  to  be  alone 
and  unobserved.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  if  she 
couldn't  come  down  to  dinner,  couldn't  see  him  at  all  that 
evening?  She  could  think  about  him;  she  could  recall  his 

in 


H2  ANGELICA 

face  and  his  voice;  rejoice  again  in  that  unaccountable  thrill. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  arms  clasped  behind 
her  head,  a  strange  and  divinely  stupid  smile  on  her  lips. 
Just  at  the  threshold  of  love  she  was  lingering,  in  that  little 
moment  before  there  is  desire  or  pain,  when  love  is  without 
substance,  without  thought,  a  dim  ecstasy,  with  no  more  mo 
tive,  no  more  basis  for  its  joy,  than  the  dream  of  an  opium- 
smoker. 

"Gawd !"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  grin.  "I  guess  I'm  hit 
this  time,  all  right!" 


II 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  went  leisurely  to 
open  it,  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  her  dinner  served  on 
a  tray ;  but  it  was  Eddie,  the  loyal  Eddie,  come  to  fetch  her. 
He  was  rather  pale  and  quite  unsmiling. 

"If  you'll  get  dressed,"  he  said.  "We're  waiting  for  you 
to  come  to  dinner." 

"Mrs.   Geraldine  said " 

"It  doesn't  matter.  You  must  come.  I  wouldn't  sit 
down  without  you." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  face  twitched.  She  looked  so 
strange,  so  terribly  aloof!  He  was  unstrung,  anyhow.  He 
had  had  a  beastly  interview  with  his  brother,  and  a  some 
what  unpleasant  five  minutes  with  Polly,  whom  he  so  much 
admired.  He  had  really  annoyed  her,  for  the  sake  of  this 
devilish  girl.  He  was  filled  with  dread  and  distress,  with  a 
wretched  sense  of  impending  calamity — what  people  call  a 
presentiment.  Perhaps  it  was  because  his  mind  uncon 
sciously  recognized  all  the  elements  here  for  a  hellish  con 
flagration. 

"Hurry,  won't  you?"  he  said.    "We're  waiting." 

She  did  hurry,  and  her  dressing  took  only  ten  minutes ;  but 
she  was  very  much  surprised  to  find  Eddie  still  waiting  for 


ANGELICA  113 

her,  and  still  more  surprised  when  he  took  her  by  the  arm 
and  for  the  first  time  used  her  name. 

"Angelica!"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"What  ?"  she  asked,  startled. 

"Don't!" 

"Don't  what,  Mr.  Eddie?" 

He  didn't  answer,  but  he  squeezed  her  arm,  and  when 
she  looked  up  into  his  face  it  was  desperately  anxious. 

"All  right!"  she  said,  half  understanding  what  he  wished 
her  to  understand. 

For  she,  too,  was  vaguely  aware  of  danger;  she,  too, 
could  dimly  perceive  whither  her  eager  feet  were  leading  her ; 
but  she  ran  to  it,  flew  to  it.  She,  too,  had  an  odd  and  ter 
rible  feeling  of  approaching  ill  fortune.  She  felt  disaster 
drawing  near,  yet  was  not  able  even  to  wish  to  avoid  it. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  next  to  Vincent ;  and  she  hadn't 
been  there  for  fifteen  minutes  before  she  was  lost.  His 
bold  eyes  rested  on  her  face,  and  all  her  own  boldness  turned 
to  surrender,  her  own  fierceness  melted.  She  couldn't  turn 
away  from  him;  she  sat  very  still,  enthralled,  listening  to 
his  voice,  watching  his  mobile  face,  the  fine,  straight  brows 
moving  so  expressively,  his  supple  hands. 

He  was  still  in  his  rough  sport  clothes,  and  his  bright 
brown  hair  was  ruffled.  He  had  an  air  about  him  of  fine, 
arrogant  carelessness  that  she  could  worship.  He  had  none 
of  Eddie's  punctilio,  no  sort  of  nice  manners;  he  had  only 
an  indifferent  ease,  a  most  complete  disregard  for  any  other 
living  soul. 

He  interrupted  without  compunction,  he  made  no  pre 
tense  of  listening;  he  wanted  to  do  all  the  talking,  and  he 
wanted  to  be  listened  to  with  respect.  Well,  why  not?  An 
gelica  wished  nothing  better  than  to  look  at  him  and  listen 
to  him  forever;  she  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  having  to 
leave  his  presence. 

Every  time  she  looked  at  him,  he  was  looking  at  her — at 
those  curious  eyes  not  quite  alike.  She  was  bewitched ;  she 


n4  ANGELICA 

scarcely  knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  felt  that  she 
shouldn't  look  at  him  so  much,  but  that  was  quite  beyond 
her  control.  The  other  people  seemed  dim  and  far  away, 
hardly  audible.  He  was  filling  up  the  world. 

He  talked  of  the  war,  and  his  words  were  glorious.  Oh, 
he  was  a  poet,  truly!  His  talk  of  blood  and  battles  fired  her 
imagination.  Eddie's  studious  dissertations  upon  the  rights 
and  wrongs  of  the  conflict  seemed  to  her  contemptible.  A 
man  mustn't  go  to  war  because  it  is  his  duty,  but  because 
he  loves  it ;  because  he  is  a  hero,  like  Vincent. 

"I'm  going!"  he  said.  "I  long  for  it.  It's  the  comple 
tion  of  a  man's  life.  Until  he  has  fought  and  killed,  a  man 
has  not  lived.  That  is  his  manhood,  his  glory.  Think  of  all 
Europe  rushing,  blood-mad,  to  the  Flanders  battlefields,  all 
the  young  and  the  fine  and  the  strong  herded  there,  to  kill 
or  to  die!  My  God!  The  very  pinnacle  of  life!" 

"Or  the  lowest  depth,"  said  Eddie. 

Vincent  laughed. 

"You're  no  warrior,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said.  "Well,  we 
don't  expect  it  of  you." 

Eddie  grew  red. 

"I  dare  say  I'm  as  much  of  a  warrior  as  the  next  man," 
he  said.  "I  dare  say  I'd  like  it — this  fighting  and  killing;  but 
I  don't  see  anything  fine  about  it.  I  don't  glorify  it.  I  think 
it's  beastly.  There  are  plenty  of  things  that  I'd  enjoy  that 
I  don't  by  any  means  admire.  This  fighting  is  a  filthy  relic 
of  our  old  barbarous  days." 

"Then  so  are  all  our  splendid  passions,  my  boy.  God  keep 
us  barbarous,  and  men!  You  chilly,  cowering  little  pen- 
drivers " 

"That's  enough !"  said  Eddie.  "You're  talking  rot — pure 
rot!" 

He  was  making  a  desperate  effort  to  control  a  furious 
anger;  for  the  sake  of  his  own  dignity  he  didn't  dare  to 
quarrel  with  Vincent.  He  knew  his  brother  and  his  unholy 
resources  too  well. 


ANGELICA  115 

"All  those  chaps  in  offices  and  so  on,"  he  continued.  "You 
don't  know  anything  about  them.  If  it  comes  to  the 
test— 

"Oh,  you'll  all  do  your  duty,  all  you  little  money-grub 
bers  !''  said  Vincent.  "I  don't  doubt  that ;  but  what  we  need 
— what  the  world  is  sick  for,  dying  for — is  men  who  are  in 
spired." 

"They  might  be  inspired  by  something  better  than  drunken 
enthusiasm,"  said  Eddie. 

Vincent  laughed  again,  and  looked  around  the  table  at  his 
worshipping  women;  but  his  glance  rested  upon  Angelica. 
She  caught  her  breath,  stared  up  at  him ;  and  then,  for  the 
first  time,  smiled  at  him,  a  smile  quite  strange  to  her, 
trembling  and  uncertain. 


in 

Eddie  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  up. 

"Miss  Kennedy,"  he  said,  "I've  some  more  books  for  you 
— if  you'll  come  and  get  them." 

"All  right !"  she  answered  carelessly. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak; 
then  he  went  on  up-stairs  into  his  room,  leaving  the  door 
open  so  that  he  could  watch  the  lighted  hall.  He  saw 
his  mother  go  by,  into  her  own  room;  then  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  piano  down-stairs — Polly's  familiar  touch. 

"I  suppose  she'll  stay  down  there — jabbering!"  he  said 
to  himself,  jealous,  hurt  beyond  measure.  "When  he  comes, 
with  his  damned  swagger,  of  course  she  has  no  further  use 
for — for  study  and  improvement.  She'll  forget  all  about 
coming!" 

He  couldn't  read,  himself.  He  sat  facing  the  door,  rest 
less,  miserable.  There  came  to  his  mind  so  many  stories  he 
had  read,  operas  he  had  heard,  with  the  tragic  rivalry  of 
brothers  for  their  theme.  And  wasn't  he  the  very  prototype 


n6  ANGELICA 

of  the  good  brother;  the  one  who  is  always  wronged  by  the 
reckless,  handsome  one — by  Vincent  ?  He  thrust  the  thought 
away.  Damned  nonsense!  No  one  was  in  love  with  any 
one  else  in  this  house! 

He  recognized  an  old  and  most  unworthy  adversary  in 
this  jealousy,  something  which  he  had  tried  for  years  to  com 
bat.  It  was  the  most  convincing  proof  of  Eddie's  greatness 
of  soul  that  he  did  so  struggle  with  this  envy,  and  that  he 
did  not  hate  his  brother.  He  had  every  possible  reason  for 
doing  so.  He  had  the  memory  of  years  and  years  of  injuries 
and  injustices ;  he  had  seen  this  brother  always  exalted  above 
him,  always  held  up  to  him  as  an  example  of  all  the  social 
virtues. 

"If  you'd  only  try  to  be  more  like  Vincent!"  his  mother 
used  to  sigh. 

Eddie  couldn't  dance,  couldn't  sing,  couldn't  in  any  sort 
of  way  ingratiate  himself.  He  wasn't  liked.  His  goodness 
itself  was  perhaps  the  chief  thing  against  him. 

"I  never  worry  about  Eddie,"  Mrs.  Russell  had  often  said 
in  his  hearing.  "He's  perfectly  safe."  And  he  knew  that 
this  was  a  most  unattractive  thing  to  be. 

He  had  never  got  on  with  Vincent.  There  was  only  two 
years'  difference  between  them,  and  Eddie  had  never  been 
able  to  make  even  this  apparent.  He  was  smaller,  he  de 
veloped  much  more  slowly,  he  never  could  obtain  any  of  the 
prestige  due  to  him  as  the  elder.  Eddie,  at  nineteen,  had 
been  nothing  but  a  somewhat  priggish  and  very  shy  school 
boy,  while  Vincent,  at  seventeen,  was  a  young  man. 

It  must  not  be  imagined,  however,  that  Eddie  was  in  any 
way  subservient  to  his  brother.  For  the  most  part,  they 
were  quite  indifferent  to  each  other.  They  very  rarely  met; 
they  went  to  different  schools,  and  Eddie  spent  his  holidays 
with  his  mother  and  Vincent  with  his  father.  When  their 
father  died,  and  they  were  once  more  under  one  roof,  with 
their  mother,  they  had  separate  friends,  separate  interests. 

When  anything  did  bring  them  together,  they  fought. 


ANGELICA  117 

Eddie  had  more  than  once  been  sent  rolling  in  the  dirt  by 
his  bigger  brother;  and  in  spite  of  the  tradition  that  the 
normal  boy  loves  the  fellow  who  pummels  him  most  heartily, 
this  didn't  breed  affection  in  Eddie's  heart.  He  resented  it. 
He  was  fiendishly  proud  and  sensitive,  and  he  couldn't  for 
get  such  outrages. 

He  had  fleeting  visions  of  certain  miserable  moments — 
visions  of  the  triumphant  and  exuberant  Vincent,  of  being 
taken  to  see  Vincent  graduated  with  honours,  to  hear  him 
read  a  valedictory  poem  he  had  written,  to  see  him  sur 
rounded,  overwhelmed  with  admiration,  of  watching  him 
win  races,  play  in  tennis  tournaments  and  amateur  the 
atricals,  of  hearing  him  sing.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
spent  a  great  part  of  his  youth  sitting  beside  his  mother  and 
watching  Vincent  show  off. 

There  were  facets  to  Vincent's  nature  which  he  never 
regarded  or  attempted  to  comprehend.  This  poetic  stuff, 
for  instance.  He  had  heard  Vincent  recite  from  his  work, 
but  he  hadn't  seen  much  in  it  for  admiration.  He  had 
simply  taken  for  granted  what  every  one  told  him,  that  his 
brother  was  a  poet.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  there 
were  grades  of  poets. 

There  was  something  mysterious  at  which  he  merely 
guessed,  a  side  to  his  brother  too  amazing  and  unpleasant 
to  contemplate.  Eddie,  with  his  rigid  self-discipline,  his 
ceaseless  struggle  to  perfect  himself,  could  in  no  way  com 
prehend  the  laxity,  the  facile  debauchery,  the  equally  facile 
repentance,  of  an  ill-balanced  and  self-indulgent  soul.  He 
had  more  than  once  fancied  he  heard  his  brother  weeping 
and  groaning,  sometimes  shut  in  with  his  mother,  sometimes 
with  Polly ;  but  when  he  actually  saw  him — big,  strong,  inso 
lent,  forever  bragging  of  his  manhood — he  couldn't  believe 
it.  He  couldn't  reconcile  the  idea  of  hysterical  weakness 
with  this  conquering  creature.  He  imagined  it  must  be 
merely  some  expression  of  the  poetic  temperament. 

No,  this  victorious  brother  was  without  blemish;  he  had 


n8  ANGELICA 

become  in  Eddie's  eyes  a  rival  of  quite  fantastic  perfection. 
He  was  handsome,  he  was  strong,  he  was  fascinating,  he 
was  a  poet;  he  had  every  accomplishment,  every  charm. 
He  was  not  to  be  withstood. 

And,  just  as  he  was  reflecting,  he  saw  Angelica  go  by  the 
door,  absolutely  oblivious  of  him,  without  so  much  as  turn 
ing  her  head.  He  heard  her  door  close;  he  waited,  but  he 
knew  it  was  of  no  use.  She  had  forgotten  him! 


rv 

Polly,  too,  was  thinking  of  Vincent.  With  that  pitiful 
stupidity  of  women,  who  can  never  quite  believe  themselves 
without  attraction,  she  had  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and 
begun  to  play.  She  knew  he  loved  music;  she  hoped  to 
interest  him  with  a  curious  new  piece. 

She  wasn't  in  love  with  him  any  longer.  She  didn't  even 
wish  him,  exactly,  to  love  her;  but  she  was  passionately 
anxious  to  secure  his  attention.  She  had  that  hunger  which 
all  really  fine  women  have — the  hunger  for  being  appre 
ciated,  recognized.  She  deluded  herself  with  the  idea  that 
after  an  episode  with  some  worthless  little  hussy,  he  couldn't 
help  but  contrast  such  a  creature  with  Polly,  and  be  filled 
with  remorse  and  respect. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  felt  nothing  in  the  vorld  but  irrita 
tion.  He  did  contrast  Polly  with  the  girl  v/hom  he  had 
left  the  day  before,  but  it  was  to  the  disadvantage  of  his 
wife.  He  saw  her  to  be  sallow,  weary,  faded.  She  had,  he 
thought,  only  one  good  point — she  didn't  nag;  didn't  even 
ask  where  he'd  been. 

He  came  and  listened  to  her  music.  She  saw  him  sitting 
close  to  her,  with  a  look  of  pleasure  on  his  face,  and  she 
put  all  her  art,  all  her  skill,  into  her  playing;  but  when  she 
glanced  up  from  a  difficult  passage,  he  had  gone. 


ANGELICA  119 

She  went  on  playing,  but  it  was  mournful,  dispirited 
music;  the  improvisings  of  a  forlorn  heart. 

Mrs.  Russell  alone  never  gave  a  thought  to  Vincent.  She 
had  gone  to  bed  very  early,  as  she  liked  to  do,  and  lay  read 
ing  a  French  detective  story.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with 
interest;  she  was  delighted. 


Angelica  had  not  turned  on  the  light.  She  sat  by  the 
open  window  of  her  room,  near  which  a  big  lime-tree  was 
rustling  in  the  dark.  The  grass,  the  bushes,  the  clouds,  were 
all  moving,  and  she  fancied  that  moths  and  bats  and  other 
little  night  creatures  fluttered  by.  The  breeze  was  going 
past  her;  she  felt  none  of  it  on  her  face.  She  had  an  im 
pression  of  being  spectator  of  a  mighty  procession,  forever 
passing  her  window  in  dim,  dark  shapes. 

She  was  excited  and  exultant;  in  the  dark  her  lips  were 
smiling.  She  wasn't  thinking;  she  was  drifting,  lost  in  an 
endless  reverie,  upon  the  strength  and  beauty  of  this  man. 
She  was  like  poor  Polly,  playing  uncounted  variations  on 
one  sole  theme. 

"I  never  felt  this  way  before !"  she  reflected,  with  wonder. 
"I  never  thought  I  could!" 

But  then  she  had  never  expected  to  meet  a  man  like  this, 
so  entirely  the  hero  of  her  dreams.  With  her  sad,  worldly 
wisdom,  she  had  expected  so  little  of  love  or  of  men.  She 
had  expected  to  be  satisfied  with  some  one  who  would  love 
her ;  she  had  never,  in  her  pride,  imagined  a  man  whom  she 
could  love.  This  noble  and  poetic  soul  was  a  shock  to  her, 
an  amazement.  Her  fancy  dwelt  upon  his  splendid  figure, 
his  bold  face.  She  smiled  again,  and  then  grew  suddenly 
uneasy. 

"No!"  she  said.  "I  don't  like  it.  I  wish  I  didn't.  Him 
being  married,  and  all !" 


120  ANGELICA 

For  a  moment  she  had  an  inchoate  perception  of  life  going 
by  like  that  wind  outside,  only  not  passing  her,  but  bearing 
her  with  it.  She  knew  that  this  thing  could  not  be  stopped. 

"Maybe  I'd  better  go  home,"  she  thought.  "I  don't  want 
to  get  mixed  up  in  anything  queer.  Maybe  I'll  go." 

But  that  wasn't  genuine ;  retreat  wasn't  in  her  soul.  Her 
vague  uneasiness  increased;  she  began  thinking  of  Eddie 
and  his  books,  and  those  magnificent  women. 

"But  all  of  them,"  she  thought,  "just  went  for  the  man 
they  wanted,  I  guess,  and  didn't  give  a  darn  for  anything 
else.  Maybe  that's  the  best  way." 

She  dallied  with  the  idea  of  reckless,  overwhelming  pas 
sion,  but  she  could  not  wholly  accept  it.  There  was  some 
thing  humiliating  in  caring  so  much  for  a  man. 

There  was  a  quiet  little  knock  at  the  door.  Angelica's 
hand  flew  to  her  heart;  she  didn't  stir.  There  was  another 
knock,  and  still  she  didn't  answer.  Then,  fancying  she 
heard  a  footstep  departing,  she  was  seized  with  an  unreason 
able  panic,  and  flew  across  the  dark  room  and  stood  close 
beside  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"It's  I,"  said  the  voice  she  had  longed  for  and  dreaded. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  flippantly. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  take  a  walk  in  the  garden,"  he 
said. 

"Why?    It's  too  late!"  she  cried. 

"Can't  we   have  a  little   talk?"   he  asked,   plaintively. 
"Can't  I  come  in?" 

She  hesitated. 

"I  guess — you'd  better  not.  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning. 
It's  so  late  now." 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  care  about  such  things,"  he  said. 

She  saw  that  he  was  disappointed;  that  he  found  her 
tame,  cowardly.  She  unlocked  the  door  and  flung  it  open. 

"But  what  on  earth  is  there  to  talk  about?"  she  asked, 
laughing  nervously. 


ANGELICA  121 

And  then  and  there  and  forever  she  lost  her  advantage 
over  Vincent.  For  that  moment  she  was  triumphant,  in 
dulgently  amused  by  his  eagerness,  mistress  of  the  situation 
and  of  him,  elated  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  beloved 
and  desired ;  but  no  sooner  had  Vincent  really  entered  than 
he  dominated  the  situation.  His  big  hand  closed  over  hers. 
He  bent  over  her  and  whispered  in  the  darkness : 

"I  couldn't  sleep  till  I'd  seen  you  again!" 

"Well !"  she  said,  with  the  same  forced  little  laugh.  "Here 
I  am!" 

He  seemed  in  the  dark  to  tower  above  her;  his  bigness, 
the  resonance  of  his  deep  voice,  confused  her. 

"I  couldn't  sleep  without  seeing  you,"  he  said  again.  "I 
had  to  know  that  you  were  real.  After  you  had  gone,  I 
thought  I  must  have  dreamed  you.  You  were  so  lovely,  so 
wonderful,  you  came  upon  me  so  suddenly !  You  are  real, 
aren't  you?" 

Again  she  gave  a  stupid  laugh. 

"Tell  me !"  he  said.  "Are  you  the  girl  that  I  saw  at  the 
dinner-table — the  houri  in  yellow  that  I  saw  in  my  mother's 
room  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  only  to  think !"  he  said.  "I've  been  looking  for  you 
all  my  life  long,  all  over  the  world,  and  I  find  you  here, 
under  my  own  roof,  when  I  come  home !  Were  you  waiting 
for  me?" 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  any  you,"  she  said,  simply. 

"I  knew  there  was  you,  though!  I  knew  I  should  find 
you!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  I've  hungered  for  you  and  thirsted 
for  you!  I've  been  so  restless  and  unsatisfied!  I  couldn't 
believe  my  eyes.  I've  found  you,  dear,  beloved  gii'l!" 

"But  you  don't  know  me !"  she  protested,  with  an  almost 
painful  anxiety.  "Perhaps  I'm  not — as  nice — as  you  think." 

"I  do  know  you!  I  know  all  your  soul.  I  was  born  to 
know  you  and  to  comprehend  you.  You  are  my  sovereign, 
my  most  beautiful  and  adored  lady.  I  am  your  knight  and 


122  ANGELICA 

your  servant  forever.  I  think  I  could  faint  with  joy  for  a 
touch  of  your  dear  hand !" 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  she  was  so  moved  by  his  words, 
by  his  ardent  and  touching  voice.  She  stood  motionless, 
still  with  her  hand  in  his ;  but  some  tremor,  some  sign  which 
his  agile  heart  at  once  detected,  must  have  told  him  that 
his  moment  had  come.  He  drew  her  close  to  him  and  clasped 
her  in  a  strong  and  tender  embrace,  her  heart  beating  close 
to  his,  while  he  stroked  her  soft  hair. 

"My  little  one!"  he  whispered.  "My  beloved  little  one! 
Madonna !  Dear,  glorious  angel !" 

His  voice  broke  in  a  sort  of  sob,  and  the  hand  smoothing 
her  hair  trembled.  He  bent  and  kissed  her  cheek,  kissed 
her  again;  then,  suddenly,  his  embrace  tightened,  and  he 
pressed  his  lips  against  hers  with  something  quite  different, 
something  quite  devoid  of  tenderness.  She  struggled,  pushed 
him  roughly  away. 

"Don't!"  she  said  sharply. 

For  she  wanted  it  to  stop  there.  She  wanted  this  to  be 
love,  this  half -sad  ecstasy,  these  stirring,  heart-breaking 
words.  She  wished  to  go  no  further.  Perhaps  the  ghosts  of 
dead  mothers  for  ages  back  come  to  beseech  young  girls,  to 
entreat  them  in  silent  voices : 

"Oh,  do  not,  my  daughter,  for  the  love  of  God,  do  not 
become  a  woman !  Stop  here !  Let  this  suffice !  For  what 
ever  little  you  may  gain,  you  will  lose  a  hundred  times  as 
much.  Draw  back  from  this  bitter,  bitter  draught!" 

"Kiss  me!"  he  entreated,  following  her  further  into  the 
room. 

"No!"  she  said  harshly.  "Go  away!  Go  out  and  close 
the  door !  Go  away,  or  I'll  call !" 

He  stopped  at  once. 

"I  thought  you  loved  me !"  he  cried. 

"I  do,"  she  said,  with  sublime  honesty.  "Only — I  want 
you  to  go.  Good  night !" 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 


And  here  was  Angelica,  the  very  next  afternoon,  sitting 
once  more  in  her  mother's  underground  kitchen,  with  the 
teapot  handy  beside  her  on  the  stove  and  a  familiar  blue 
and  white  cup  and  saucer  before  her;  but  the  kitchen  was 
not  as  in  the  old  days.  Now  it  was  all  disorder  and  dirt, 
the  clock  had  stopped,  the  floor  was  unswept,  the  bright 
blackness  of  the  stove  was  lost  in  a  grayish  fuzz.  The 
mistress — or,  one  might  better  say,  the  servant — of  this 
little  domain,  who  had  worked  so  valiantly  to  preserve  its 
decency,  was  lying  ill  in  the  adjoining  bedroom. 

Angelica  had  got  a  brief  note  from  her  that  morning  at 
the  breakfast-table : 

DEAR  ANGELICA  : 

I  am  taken  ill,  and  do  not  know  how  ever  I  shall  manage.  If  you 
can  spare  the  time  I  wish  you  would  come. 

YOUR  MOTHER. 

Angelica  had  shown  this  to  Eddie,  and  he  had  at  once 
ordered  the  motor  for  her  and  given  her  twenty-five  dollars 
for  any  urgent  expenses. 

"Get  everything  that's  necessary,"  he  told  her.  "If  she's 
very  ill,  be  sure  to  get  a  nurse.  Don't  overtax  yourself. 
And  here's  my  office  telephone  number;  I'll  expect  to  hear 
from  you  this  afternoon." 

Angelica  had  got  a  doctor  from  the  neighborhood.  He 
had  declared  her  mother's  illness  to  be  a  sort  of  indigestion, 
and  had  ordered  a  cessation  of  boiled  tea,  a  strengthening 
diet,  a  number  of  medicines,  and  a  week's  complete  rest; 
and  now  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  enjoying  the  rest. 

123 


i24  ANGELICA 

Angelica  had  set  to  work  with  terrific  energy;  had  gone 
flying  in  and  out  of  the  flat,  using  Eddie's  money  to  great 
advantage.  She  bought  her  mother  two  new  night-dresses, 
a  bag  of  oranges,  a  drinking-glass — they  had  had  nothing 
but  cups  for  a  long  time — and  two  new  saucepans  for  cook 
ing  the  food  she  was  to  enjoy.  Her  last  purchases  had  in 
cluded  extension  screens  for  the  windows  and  a  wire  "fly- 
swatter,"  with  which  she  had  pursued  and  deftly  crushed 
every  fly  in  the  flat. 

After  lunch  she  intended  to  clean  the  rooms  properly,  to 
scrub,  to  sweep,  to  dust,  to  wash.  She  rather  looked  for 
ward  to  it.  Her  mother  wasn't  seriously  ill,  and  she  had 
had  the  extreme  satisfaction  of  making  her  happy  and  com 
fortable.  She  had  left  her  lying  neat  and  peaceful  in  the 
dark  little  cell,  with  her  hair  brushed  and  braided  and  her 
mind  at  peace. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  had  said  that  it  was  better  than  medicine 
to  see  her  child  again,  and  it  was — above  all,  to  see  her  child 
so  triumphantly  happy.  Letters  had  told  her  very  little, 
for  Angelica  was  not  good  at  writing,  and  her  brief  notes 
had  given  her  mother  plenty  of  scope  for  anxiety.  She 
hadn't  thought  it  possible  that  her  child  had  actually  held 
her  own  there  among  the  rich  people.  She  wanted  to  ask 
innumerable  questions,  to  talk  at  great  length;  but  Angelica 
made  use  of  the  doctor's  recommendation. 

"He  said  for  you  to  be  very  quiet  and  not  talk  much," 
she  stated. 

"You  talk  and  I'll  listen,"  said  her  mother. 

"No,  that'll  excite  you,"  Angelica  replied.  "You  just  keep 
quiet,  mommer,  till  you're  better." 

She  could  not  talk  to  Mrs.  Kennedy;  she  felt  absolutely 
obliged  to  go  off  alone  where  she  could  think  of  Vincent. 
All  the  morning,  even  through  her  great  anxiety  before  she 
had  got  to  her  mother,  all  the  while  she  was  working  to 
make  her  patient  comfortable,  that  delight  had  glowed  in  her 
heart.  She  had  scarcely  closed  her  eyes  the  night  before, 


ANGELICA  125 

but  she  was  not  in  any  way  tired.  She  was  in  a  sort  of 
continuous  rapture ;  she  was  filled  with  energy,  vigour,  an  im 
measurable  good-will. 

She  rocked  back  and  forth  in  the  creaking  old  chair  of 
which  her  mother  was  so  fond,  and  drank  her  tea,  as  it 
had  been  their  custom  to  drink  it,  black  and  bitter,  with  a 
parsimonious  teaspoonful  of  condensed  milk  in  it.  She 
smiled  to  think  of  the  contrast  between  this  sort  of  tea-drink 
ing  and  that  at  Buena  Vista — the  fine  and  delicate  china, 
the  pale  amber  liquid,  served  with  cream,  crystal  sugar,  thin 
slices  of  lemon,  all  sorts  of  biscuits  and  cakes,  all  the  cere 
mony  of  the  thing.  She  felt  that,  after  all,  there  was  a 
tranquil  sort  of  comfort  in  her  present  state  quite  lacking 
in  the  other;  not  realizing  that  it  was  the  happiness  in  her 
heart  which  gilded  all  her  surroundings. 

She  pictured  Vincent  and  herself  in  a  place  like  this, 
blessed  outcasts  who  had  renounced  everything,  and  had 
only  each  other.  She  imagined  his  coming  home  to  her, 
weary  and  pallid;  she  saw  herself  welcoming  him,  smiling, 
proud,  brave  through  any  suffering,  her  ambitions  all  re 
nounced,  all  her  hope  in  him.  She  fetched  a  pail  of  water 
and  a  scrubbing-brush  and  a  cake  of  horrible  yellow  soap, 
and  while  she  worked  bemused  herself  with  a  fancy  that 
this  was  Vincent's  home,  and  that  she  was  working  for  him. 

Because  she  so  longed  to  see  him,  she  felt  sure  that  he 
would  come.  When  the  door-bell  rang,  she  sprang  up  from 
the  floor  she  was  scrubbing,  and  ran  just  as  she  was,  dis 
heveled,  in  her  wet  apron,  to  let  him  in. 

She  met  the  troubled  regard  of  Eddie. 

"How  is  your  mother?"  he  inquired,  staring  and  staring 
at  this  joyous,  untidy  creature. 

"Better,"  said  Angelica. 

She  was  friendly,  very  well-disposed  toward  Eddie,  and 
yet,  at  this  moment,  irritated  by  him  because  he  wasn't  Vin 
cent.  Really  she  didn't  want  to  see  him.  She  remained 
holding  the  door  half  open,  and  hoping  that  he  would  go, 


126  ANGELICA 

but  he  stood  there  for  some  time,  frowning  a  little  and 
biting  his  little  yellow  mustache  in  silence. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  come  in?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"No,  of  course  not!  Come  on  in,  if  you  want;  only 
mommer's  in  bed " 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  alone,"  he  said,  his  frown  deepening 
to  a  scowl.  "May  I?" 

Her  heart  sank.  It  was  surely  something  about  Vincent 
— a  reproof,  an  accusation,  perhaps  dismissal.  She  led  the 
way  into  the  tiny  parlour,  black  as  a  dungeon,  and  with 
barred  windows,  too;  took  off  her  apron  and  threw  it,  a 
sodden  bundle,  out  into  the  hall.  Then  she  sat  down  defi 
antly  before  him. 

"Well?"  she  demanded. 

Eddie  waited  for  a  moment. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  he  said  at  last.  "About  you.  A 
lot.  Especially  last  night.  If  you've  got  time  to  spare,  and 
if  you'll  listen— 

"Go  ahead !   I'm  listening." 

She  was  still  defiant,  because  she  expected  a  rebuke,  and 
she  was  well  aware  that  there  was  quite  enough  cause  in 
her  conduct  to  merit  severe  reproofs.  He  was  so  serious,  so 
disturbed,  that  she  believed  him  to  be  disappointed  in  her, 
and  she  resented  that. 

"Well?"  she  said  again. 

"It's  this,"  he  said.  "I — I  wish  I  could  make  you  believe 
that  I'm  not  selfish  in  this.  I  wish  I  had  some  way  of 
making  you  believe  that  I'm  really  thinking  of  you,  first  of 
all.  You  seem  so — solitary,  so —  unprotected.  Of  course, 
I  know  you're  very  self-reliant,  and  all  that,  but  still,  you're 
only  a  young  girl,  after  all." 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  she  said  sullenly.  "I  sup 
pose  you  mean  you  don't  like  the  way  I've  been  acting. 
Well,  I " 

"No!"  he  cried  impatiently.  "What  nonsense!  No! 
What  I  mean  is — I  think  you'd  better  marry  me." 


ANGELICA  127 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  cried  Angelica,  astounded. 

Eddie's  face  grew  scarlet. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  he  said. 

"But " 

"I've — I  can  offer  you — I  have  a  good  income,"  he  went 
on,  angry  and  embarrassed.  "I  own  Buena  Vista,  with  a 
small  mortgage  on  it.  I  have  something  invested,  and  I'm 
earning  plenty.  I'm  doing  well.  I'll  be  a  rich  man  before 
long." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but ' 

"And — I  think  I'd  make  a  good  husband.  I  admire  you 
so  much — I  can't  tell  you  how  much!  I  think  you're — won 
derful.  You  haven't  a  penny,  you  haven't  any  family,  any 
position 

"Now,  look  here!"  she  interrupted,  threateningly. 

He  hastened  to  repair  his  lack  of  tact. 

"I'm  only  mentioning  that  to  show  you  that  I  think  that 
you — just  yourself — are  worth  more  than  any  other  woman 
on  earth.  It  seems  to  me  you  have  all  the  qualities  I've 
always  admired — pride,  and  spirit,  and  ambition,  and 
strength — and  then  you're  so  beautiful.  I — really,  Angelica, 
if  you  would  marry  me,  I  could  do  anything.  I'm  only 
twenty-nine,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  much  older!"  said  Angelica,  glad 
of  any  distraction  from  this  awful  topic. 

To  her  amazement,  Eddie  sprang  to  his  feet  and  looked 
down  at  her,  quite  pale  with  anger. 

"No  doubt!"  he  cried.  "No  doubt  you  looked  on  me  as 
a  dull,  tiresome,  middle-aged  man.  You're  like  all  women 
— you  must  have  a  handsome  man — any  fool  with  a  hand 
some  face,  who'll  make  you  fine  speeches!  If  I'd  go  down 
on  my  knees  and  rant  and  rave  like  a  damned  actor — but  I 
won't !  I'm  not  that  sort.  I  tell  you,  in  a  straightforward 
way,  that  I — I  ask  you  to  marry  me.  I'm — I've  got  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of — nothing!  One  or  two  little  things  in 


128  ANGELICA 

the  past — but  nothing  serious.  I  mean,  no  one  can  re 
proach  me.  I've  never  harmed  any  one." 

"Oh,  I  know  it !"  she  cried.  "It's  not  that.  I  know  you're 
good — too  good  for  me.  I  think  an  awful  lot  of  you,  Mr. 
Eddie.  Only " 

"Only  what?" 

"I  couldn't!" 

"Now,  see  here,  Angelica,  I  haven't  much  time.  I've 
come  away  in  the  very  middle  of  my  office  hours  to — settle 
this.  I  can't  work,  I  can't  do  anything  until  this  is  off  my 
mind.  It's — don't  be  unreasonable,  please,  Angelica!" 

"I'm  not,  Mr.  Eddie;  but— I  just  can't!" 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I'm — distasteful  to  you?" 

That  was  his  weak  point,  his  sorest  spot,  this  sense  of 
his  own  unattractiveness,  his  unpopularity.  He  had  labored 
too  long  under  disadvantages  too  crushing;  he  couldn't  ac 
quire  the  self-respect  to  which  his  qualities  entitled  him.  He 
had  never  been  loved,  not  even  by  his  own  mother,  and  he 
could  not  destroy  a  conviction,  persisting  from  childhood, 
that  he  was  in  some  mysterious  way  unlovable  and  repulsive. 

He  turned  away  abruptly. 

"Very  well!"  he  said.  "I  understand.  I'll  go.  Good- 
by!" 

"No!  Don't!  It's  not  that.  You're  not  distasteful!" 
she  cried.  "Honestly,  you're  not — not  a  bit !  I  think  an 
awful  lot  of  you.  I  think  you're — grand.  I  do,  really;  but 
I'm  just  not  in  love  with  you.  I  can't  help  it.  It  isn't  that 
you're  not  handsome,  or  anything  like  that." 

She  was  moved  by  his  wretched,  pallid  face.  She  wanted 
very  much  to  reassure  him  as  to  his  desirability  and  attrac 
tiveness.  She  wanted  him  to  know  of  her  admiration  and 
her  great  good-wall;  but  she  knew  no  way  of  saying  all 
this.  She  caught  his  hand  and  squeezed  it;  and  when  he 
turned,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  those  wonderful  black 
eyes,  troubled,  filled  with  tears. 

"But  can't  we  keep  on  being  good  friends  ?"  she  asked. 


ANGELICA  129 

He  forced  himself  to  smile  down  at  her  in  his  old  kindly 
way — or  as  nearly  that  as  his  drawn  face  would  allow. 
"I'll  try,"  he  said.    "Good  day!" 


ii 

Mrs.  Kennedy  wished  to  have  all  this  explained  to  her. 

"Who  was  it,  Angie?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  Mr.  Eddie — him  that  owns  the  house,"  said 
Angelica. 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"Oh,  nothing!" 

"Angie,  tell  your  mother,  deary.    What  made  you  cry?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  was  nervous,  I  guess." 

Her  mother  sighed. 

"If  you've  made  up  your  mind  not  to  tell  me —  You  know 
your  own  business  best,  I  dare  say;  only,  Angelica,  I  hope 
there's  nothing  wrong  about  it — nothing  that's  what  it 
shouldn't  be?" 

"No!  If  you  really  want  to  know,  he  wants  to  marry 
me." 

She  couldn't  conceal  a  sort  of  pride.  After  all,  it  was 
something ! 

Her  mother  was  not  garrulous,  but  this  she  couldn't  stop 
talking  of;  she  couldn't  have  enough  of  Eddie,  no  detail 
was  too  trivial.  She  wanted  to  have  a  complete  description 
of  his  person  and  of  his  life. 

But  Angelica's  reception  of  his  proposal  she  didn't  men 
tion.  She  saw  that  there  was  something  a  bit  strained  in 
that  quarter,  something  which  talking  might  make  worse, 
so  she  held  her  tongue,  confident  that  it  would  end  right 
enough.  A  girl's  whim!  She  knew  her  daughter;  Angelica 
was  far  too  sensible  and  shrewd  not  to  take  advantage  of 
such  an  opportunity.  She  permitted  herself  to  dream  of  a 
future  for  her  child  glorious  beyond  all  her  former  hopes. 


130  ANGELICA 

For  herself  she  expected  nothing.  She  knew — none  bet 
ter — what  there  is  of  gratitude  in  this  world.  She  trusted 
her  child,  knew  that  she  would  never  forget  or  neglect  her, 
but  she  knew  also  that  Angelica  was  likely  to  rise  where  she 
never  could  follow.  There  would  be  a  pension,  no  doubt, 
but  no  real  share  in  any  future  grandeur  for  Mrs.  Kennedy, 
scrubwoman,  janitress,  and  martyr. 

Her  dreaming  was  disturbed,  however,  and  her  happi 
ness  turned  to  uneasiness  by  the  arrival  of  a  second  man 
that  night.  She  heard  the  bell  ring  and  her  daughter  hasten 
to  the  door,  and  then  come  back  again. 

"Mommer,  do  you  mind  if  I  go  out  for  a  little  while?" 
she  asked. 

"Who  with,  Angie?" 

"A  feller,"  said  Angelica.  "I'll  be  back  inside  of  an  hour, 
sure.  Will  you  be  all  right?" 

"What  fellow?" 

"A  new  beau,"  Angelica  told  her,  laughing.  "By-by,  mom- 
mer!  Back  soon!" 

So  joyous,  so  excited !    It  didn't  look  well  for  Eddie. 

"Now  what  in  the  world  is  that  child  up  to?"  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy  thought. 

In  the  meantime  Angelica  had  reached  the  street  with 
Vincent,  and  they  stood  on  the  corner,  irresolute.  It  was  a 
sultry  night;  the  street  was  swarming  with  wretched  and 
vicious  life,  evil  smells,  a  pandemonium  of  noise.  Angelica, 
however,  might  have  been  standing  in  the  golden  streets 
of  paradise,  or  in  the  desolation  of  hell,  for  all  she  cared. 
She  didn't  notice,  she  didn't  really  know,  where  she  was. 

Ever  since  she  had  opened  the  door  and  seen  Vincent 
standing  outside,  she  had  been  quite  beside  herself.  She 
waited  on  that  malodorous  corner,  looking  up  into  his  face 
with  hungry  eyes,  waiting  for  his  words,  for  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  So  much  had  she  thought  about  that  enchanted 
love  scene  in  the  dark,  so  long  had  she  dwelt  upon  Vincent's 
words,  his  appearance,  that  in  this  brief  interlude  she  had 


ANGELICA  131 

been  able  to  accomplish  that  amazing  and  essential  trans 
formation  of  lovers — she  had  changed  the  real  man  into 
the  man  she  wished  him  to  be. 

She  was  dazed,  stupid  with  the  splendour  of  her  own 
creation,  of  the  god  whom  she  had  made  to  worship.  She 
was  almost  afraid  of  him.  After  all  her  preposterously 
exaggerated  day-dreams,  it  was  necessary  that  she  should 
see  in  him  a  marvel,  and  of  course  she  did  see  a  marvel. 

He  wore  a  dark  suit  that  fitted  closely  to  his  shoulders, 
and  moulded  for  the  delighted  eye  his  splendid  figure,  his 
perfectly  proportioned  height.  He  was  powerful  and  at 
the  same  time  graceful,  and  he  carried  himself  regally.  In 
his  role  of  poet,  he  wore  a  white  shirt  with  a  low,  open 
collar  and  a  soft  black  tie,  and  he  went  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  the  better  to  show  his  keen,  vigorous  profile,  his  fine 
head  with  its  rough,  bright  hair.  Angelica  felt  that  she 
would  never  grow  tired  of  looking  at  him,  and  yet  in  less 
than  five  minutes  she  grew  restless  because  he  didn't  look 
at  her. 

At  last  he  did,  and  smiled. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "What  shall  we  do,  eh?" 

"Whatever  you  like." 

"God  forbid!" 

"Why?"  she  demanded  impudently.  "What  would  you 
like?"  " 

"I'd  like  to  kiss  you,  for  one  thing;  but  I  won't.  Don't 
be  provoking,  naughty  Angelica — I  won't  make  love  to 
you!" 

His  tone  was  light  and  careless,  and  the  smile  he  gave 
her  she  neither  understood  nor  liked.  She  was  puzzled  and 
hurt.  What  made  him  so  different  ?  What  was  the  matter  ? 

"Suppose  we  walk?"  he  suggested.  "This  isn't  a  very 
appetizing  corner  to  stand  on.  How  is  your  mother?" 

"Better,"  said  Angelica  in  a  surly  tone. 

"And  you?" 

"All  right" 


132  ANGELICA 

"I  don't  know  who  else  there  is  in  your  household,  but 
I  hope  they're  all  quite  well.  Brothers  and  sisters " 

"Don't  be  silly !"  she  said  roughly. 

"Angelica,"  he  replied,  "I'm  not  silly.  I'm  only  trying 
to  be  decent.  You're  very  young,  very  inexperienced.  It's 
hard  to  talk  to  you.  I  hoped  you'd  understand  without  an 
explanation,  but  I  don't  believe  now  that  you  can." 

She  could  have  wept  with  chagrin  and  utter  bewilderment. 
She  saw  that  she  was  being  very  stupid,  and  that  she  was 
disappointing  her  idol  in  some  way,  but  she  couldn't  in  the 
least  comprehend  how. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  with  an  air  of  extreme  patience 
and  gentleness,  "all  that — last  night — it  was  very  wrong.  I 
blame  myself  severely.  My  ideas  about  such  things  aren't 
the  usual  sort,  by  any  means.  I  don't  parade  it,  but  I'm  a 
deeply  religious  man;  and  when  I  find  myself  giving  way 
to  temptation  as  I  did  last  night,  I'm  ashamed." 

They  went  along  in  silence,  down  Seventh  Avenue,  to 
the  entrance  of  the  park  at  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street. 
They  entered  here,  and  proceeded,  at  the  easy  pace  he  had 
set,  side  by  side,  both  looking  ahead.  All  about  them  in 
the  warm  dark  were  lovers,  sitting  close  together  on  the 
benches,  walking  hand  in  hand.  There  was  a  very  atmo 
sphere  of  love.  And  Angelica  must  go  on  beside  this  man, 
who  didn't  even  turn  his  head  to  look  at  her,  who  had  noth 
ing  to  say  to  her.  He  only  quoted  some  poetry  which  she 
neither  liked  nor  understood,  for  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
love;  it  was  about  the  foreign  people  in  the  city  and  the 
hot  weather. 

She  tried  to  lean  upon  her  pride.  Very  well,  if  he  didn't 
mind  wasting  this  precious  and  beautiful  hour  together,  then 
neither  would  she;  but  she  couldn't  restrain  a  hoarse  little 
sob  that  flew  suddenly  into  her  throat. 

Vincent  stopped. 

"Now,  my  dear  child !"  he  remonstrated.  "Don't !  You 
make  it  so  hard  for  me.  It's  not  kind." 


ANGELICA  133 

She  tried  to  stop  weeping,  but  couldn't  at  once.  He  laid 
a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  gently  patted  her. 

"You  mustn't  take  it  like  this,  my  dear;  or  else  I  shan't 
be  strong  enough.  Do  you  know  why  I  came  to-night?" 

"I  suppose — you  wanted  to  see  me." 

"No,  I  didn't.  It's  only  pain  for  me  to  see  you.  I  can't 
have  you.  I  mustn't  even  think  of  you.  I've  got  to  give  you 
up.  I've  got  to  stop  loving  you." 

"Can  you?"  she  asked,  with  quivering  lips. 

"I  must.  I  came  to  tell  you  so.  You  must  forget  all  I 
said  last  night.  I  shouldn't  be  fit  to  live  if  I  were  to  harm 
you.  Angelica,  what  do  you  think  I  am?  Do  you  think  I 
could  harm  you  ?  Do  you  think  it's  in  me  to  do  so  brutal  a 
thing,  Angelica?" 

She  was  effectually  checked,  her  ardour  destroyed.  Net 
tled  by  his  assumption  that  only  his  nobility  saved  her,  her 
pride  came  to  the  aid.  He  needn't  talk  of  giving  her  up 
when  he  hadn't  got  her ! 

And,  ignorant  as  Angelica  was,  a  novice  in  love,  she  was 
able  to  perceive  a  certain  falseness  in  his  attitude.  This  was 
not  the  renunciation  of  a  man  who  loved  her  better  than 
himself.  It  was  something  different,  which  she  didn't 
understand,  and  which  displeased  her. 

She  had  such  a  feminine  longing  to  be  captured  and  com 
promised  that  she  couldn't  even  imagine  the  motive  which 
just  then  ruled  Vincent — that  powerful  instinct  of  the  male 
to  escape  entanglements;  but  her  fresh  and  fervent  spirit 
was  able  by  instinct  to  perceive  his  staleness.  Mystery  as 
he  was  to  her,  she  nevertheless  felt,  with  perfect  justness, 
that  at  that  moment  he  cared  nothing  at  all  for  her. 

"Let's  turn  back !"  she  said.  "I  told  mommer  I  wouldn't 
be  gone  long." 

He  made  no  objection.  He  took  her  back  to  her  own  door 
and  stood  hat  in  hand  to  wish  her  a  good  night. 

"Angelica,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  will  thank  me  some 
day." 


134  ANGELICA 

She  didn't  reply,  only  turned  and  left  him,  and  went  into 
the  flat. 

Her  mother  was  asleep,  and  everything  was  quiet.  She 
sat  down  in  the  dark  kitchen  near  the  barred  window,  where 
a  beam  of  light  from  a  flat  overhead,  across  the  court,  fell 
upon  her. 

"Well !"  she  said.    "Thafs  over,  I  guess !" 

An  awful  sense  of  frustration  swept  over  her.  That  all 
this  should  stop  before  it  had  fairly  begun;  that  this  beauti 
ful  love  should  be  stamped  out — intolerable !  It  was  not  in 
her  nature  to  submit ;  there  was  no  resignation  in  her.  She 
could  not  bear  to  be  thwarted  here,  at  the  threshold  of  her 
life,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  adventure  to  which  she 
had  always  looked  forward. 

She  cried  fiercely  to  God  that  she  didn't  love  this  man, 
that  he  wasn't  the  one  for  whom  she  had  longed.  She 
wouldn't  weep!  If  she  could,  she  would  have  torn  out  of 
her  body  that  treacherous  heart  which  so  belied  her  pride. 

"All  right,  my  lad!"  she  said.  "All  right!  You  won't 
find  it  very  hard  to  give  me  up !" 

She  lighted  the  gas  and  sauntered  about  the  kitchen,  eating 
whatever  she  saw — bread  and  biscuits,  with  a  little  cold  tea 
that  was  in  the  teapot.  She  even  whistled  softly  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  waked  up,  and  Angelica  went  in  to  see  what 
her  mother  wanted.  She  strictly  discouraged  conversation, 
however,  and  questions. 

"Don't  talk,  mommer.  It's  too  late.  Go  to  sleep  now. 
I'm  coming  to  bed  myself  right  away.  I'll  put  out  the  light 
and  get  undressed  in  the  dark,  so  you  can  get  to  sleep." 

Which  she  did.  Her  mother  heard  her  moving  adroitly 
about,  heard  her  brushing  her  hair,  and,  at  last,  the  wild 
shriek  of  a  spring  cot,  bought  second-hand  the  day  before. 

For  half  an  hour  Angelica  lay  quite  still;  then  suddenly 
she  sat  up. 

"You!"  she  whispered,  with  a  sob.  "You!  You  go  to 
hell!  I  don't  care!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 


Angelica  was  surprised  at  getting  a  letter  the  next  morn 
ing,  for  she  never  got  letters.  The  writing  was  necessarily 
unfamiliar,  as  there  was  none  that  would  not  have  been. 
She  opened  it. 

"Angelica,  beloved  girl !"  it  began.    "I  can't  do  it !" 
"Why,  my  Gawd !"  she  whispered.    "It's  from  him!" 

I  can't  give  you  up !  I  tried — God  knows  I  did,  but  I  can't !  I 
can't  think  of  consequences,  of  honour,  of  anything  but  this  heaven 
ly  madness  that  is  destroying  me.  Even  if  I  lose  my  soul,  even  if 
it  brings  ruin  and  misery  upon  you  whom  I  worship,  I  must  have 
you,  Angelica !  Oh,  come  back  to  me  !  Come  back  to  me  !  The 
farce  is  over.  I  have  played  my  role  of  prudent,  honourable  man  of 
the  world.  Here  I  am  now,  without  reserve,  without  the  smallest 
shred  of  worldly  wisdom,  without  conscience,  without  civilization; 
nothing,  my  Angelica,  but  a  man! 

Nothing  but  your  lover, 

VINCENT. 

She  was  wild  with  joy.  She  set  to  work  with  terrific 
energy,  the  letter  crushed  inside  her  blouse.  She  insisted 
upon  finishing  the  ironing  which  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  tried 
to  do  for  a  tenant  before  she  became  ill.  She  stood  over  the 
ironing-board  singing  in  her  rather  husky  voice. 

Nothing  but  a  misunderstanding,  after  all!  He  did  love 
her,  he  had  only  tried  to  do  what  was  right.  She  felt  a  pro 
found  pity  for  him,  her  poor  poet,  who  had  done  his  very 
best  to  protect  her,  until  love  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  bet  I'll  go  back  to  him !"  she  said  to  herself. 

Her  mother  was  alarmed.  She  saw — who  could  help  it  ? — 
the  exaltation  of  her  child,  and  she  wished  to  know  the  cause. 
Poor  woman !  She  feared  joy  with  all  her  soul. 

J35 


136  ANGELICA 

"Who  was  that  other  man  you  went  out  with  last  night* 
Angie?"  she  asked. 

"Oh !    The  brother  of  the  other  feller." 

Her  mother  reflected. 

"You  seem  to  like  him  better,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Is  he  nice?" 

"Yes,  he  is." 

"But  you're  not ?" 

"I  don't  know,  mommer !"  she  answered,  laughing. 

"Deary !    I  wish  you'd  tell  me !" 

"There's  nothing  to  tell." 

"But,  my  deary,  don't  be  foolish.  Don't  be  hasty!  Try 
to  find  out  if  he's — a  good  man,  before  you  let  yourself  think 
about  him.  Is  he  a  good  man,  Angie  ?" 

"He's  a  good-looking  one,  anyway,"  Angelica  answered 
flippantly.  "Now,  mommer  dear,  please  don't  worry  about 
me.  I'm  not  a  fool!" 

"But  you're  young,  Angie,  and  you're  very  hasty.  I  do 
worry  about  you.  You  never  tell  me  anything.  You  won't 
listen  to  me." 

Angelica,  with  that  letter  next  her  heart,  was  patient. 

"I  do  listen  to  you,  mommer.  Now,  do  you  want  a  glass 
of  milk?" 

She  was  patient,  because  she  was  indifferent,  because  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  didn't  care  about  her  mother, 
didn't  care  what  Mrs.  Kennedy  thought  or  how  she  felt. 
She  wanted,  in  fact,  to  get  away  from  her,  to  be  quite  free 
and  not  bothered  by  questions. 

"Shall  I  go  back  to  him  now?"  she  thought.  "This  in 
stant?  Just  like  I  am?" 

But  that,  though  splendid,  wouldn't  do,  and  couldn't  be 
arranged ;  so  she  sat  down  to  write  him  a  letter.  It  took  her 
no  more  than  a  minute  to  finish  it,  for  this  was  all  that  she 
wrote : 


ANGELICA  137 

I  will  come  back  to  you.    I  love  you,  too. 

Your 
ANGELICA. 

The  telephone  rang — that  hateful  telephone  in  the  dark 
outer  hall,  under  the  stairs.  This  was  one  of  the  "modern 
conveniences"  of  the  apartment-house,  and  it  was  her  moth 
er's  duty  to  attend  it,  and  by  screaming,  by  ringing  the  down 
stairs  bells,  or,  when  they  were  broken,  by  toiling  up  the 
stairs,  to  apprise  the  tenant  whom  it  summoned.  They  both 
hated  the  thing.  When  it  rang,  they  would  sigh,  "Oh,  that 
telephone !"  and  go  wearily  to  serve  it. 

It  was  a  surprise  and  a  great  relief  to  hear  Eddie's  voice 
on  the  telephone,  for  Angelica  had  been  half  afraid  that  the 
etiquette  prevailing  among  rich  people  would  prevent  any 
further  communication.  She  wasn't  even  sure  as  to  whether 
or  not  she  was  expected  to  go  back  to  Buena  Vista.  But 
Eddie  wasn't  that  sort.  His  voice  was  just  as  it  had  always 
been — official,  but  quite  kindly. 

"Hello !"  he  said.     "How's  your  mother?" 

"Much  better." 

"That's  good!  Then  have  you  any  idea  when  you'll  come 
back  to  us,  Angelica?" 

"In  a  week.    Next  Saturday,  the  doctor  says." 

"Good!  I'll  call  for  you  next  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
I  leave  the  office.  And  I  say,  Angelica,  don't  you  want 
Courtland  to  bring  you  some  of  the  things  you  left  at  our 
place?" 

"I  would  like  a  few  of  them,"  she  answered,  gratefully. 

And  the  busy,  harassed  Eddie,  sitting  in  his  office,  with 
impatient  men  waiting  to  see  him,  with  his  stenographer  pen 
in  hand  beside  him,  with  a  telegraph-boy  behind  him  who  re 
quired  a  reply,  in  the  midst  of  the  rattle  of  typewriters,  the 
ringing  of  telephone-bells,  the  clicking  of  the  ticker,  hoarse, 
excited  voices,  all  this  frenzied  life  which  he  had  caused  to 
exist  and  directed  and  sustained — he  took  time  to  write  down 


138  ANGELICA 

at  Angelica's  'dictation  a  list  of  things  she  had  left  behind 
her  in  his  house. 

It  touched  him,  that  list,  it  was  so  obviously  the  list  of  a 
poor  person — things  that  he,  or  any  one  he  knew,  would  have 
bought  duplicates  of  without  a  second  thought;  things  one 
would  hardly  bother  to  pack.  He  got  them  together  himself 
when  he  reached  home  that  evening — a  tooth-brush,  a  cake 
of  perfumed  soap,  a  half -empty  box  of  cheap  writing-paper, 
hairpins,  a  nail-brush. 

Courtland  brought  them  that  evening,  much  against  his 
will.  Who  was  she  to  have  her  wretched  little  belongings 
sent  down  to  her  in  a  motor-car  ?  He  was  obliged  to  assert 
himself,  to  proclaim  his  independence  and  his  superiority. 
He  stood  outside  the  door  with  his  finger  on  the  bell  so  that 
it  rang  in  one  long,  maddening  clamour,  and  he  kicked  at  the 
door.  He  made  an  outrageous  noise. 

Angelica  came  flying  down  the  hall  in  a  fury,  and  flung 
open  the  door. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried.  "Where  do  you  think 
you  are,  anyway?" 

Courtland  stared  at  her  for  a  minute.  Then,  making  an 
imaginary  lorgnette  of  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  he  peered 
through  it,  bending  forward  from  the  waist  in  a  preposterous 
and  unseemly  attitude. 

"Aeoh !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  simpering  voice.  "I  beg  your 
pawdon,  I'm  suah !  I  forgot  myself,  really,  don'tcher  know ! 
ilf  you  will  kindly  permit  me  to  enter  this  mansion,  I  will 
deliver  to  you  this  package  of  jools  sent  by  the  dook!" 

"Give  it  to  me  and  shut  your  mouth,"  said  Angelica. 

"What's  all  this?"  called  Mrs.  Kennedy  from  her  bed. 
?<Whoisit,Angie?" 

"Only  the  chauffeur.  He  brought  some  of  my  things," 
her  daughter  answered  in  a  contemptuous  tone. 

There  was  something  about  her  child's  words  and  tone 
that  jarred  upon  Mrs.  Kennedy.  She  came  out  of  the  bed- 


ANGELICA  139 

room  in  her  new  flannel  wrapper,  and  addressed  Courtland 
with  ceremonious  politeness. 

"I'm  sure  we're  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said. 
"Won't  you  step  in  ?  Maybe  you'd  take  a  cup  of  tea,  and  rest 
a  few  minutes?" 

"Rest !"  said  Angelica.    "He  never  does  anything  else !" 

Courtland  ignored  her. 

"I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  sat  down  heavily  on  the 
step-ladder  chair.  "I'm  as  tired  as  a  dawg,"  he  said,  with  his 
invariable  air  of  grievance.  "It's  enough  to  make  you  sick — 
driving  that  woman  all  over  the  country.  No  more  consid 
eration,  she's  got,  than  a — than  a  dawg!" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  "I  suppose  that's  what  you're 
paid  for." 

"I  know  it !"  he  agreed,  plaintively.  "That's  all  right ;  but 
then  what  does  she  want  to  be  telling  me  I'm  too  good  to  be  a 
chauffeur  for?  She  says  there's  lots  of  fellows  in  college 
hasn't  got  my  brains.  And  this  golf !  There  she's  got  me 
the  bag  of  clubs  that  cost  Gawd  knows  what,  and  she  just 
started  showing  me  the  way  to  use  them.  She  said  I  was 
doing  fine,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  dropped  it,  and  never 
said  another  word  about  it.  I  waited.  After  a  while  I  began 
putting  the  bag  of  clubs  in  the  car,  to  remind  her.  No,  not  a 
word!  So  I  says  to  her  to-day,  'What  about  this  here  golf?' 
And  she  says,  with  that  grin  of  hers,  'Oh,  I  hawdly  think 
it's  worth  while  going  on.  I'm  afraid  it  was  a  mistake' — 
and  tells  me  I  can  sell  the  clubs !" 

"What  of  it?"  inquired  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "They're  no  good 
to  you.  I  can't  see  any  sense  in  your  learning  to  play  golf. 
I  can't  see  what  you  have  to  complain  of." 

"Oh,  it's  the  way  them  rich  people  pick  you  up  and  then 
drop  you  that  makes  me  sick!  Who  is  she,  anyway?  An 
old " 

"You  shouldn't  say  that !"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  severely. 


140  ANGELICA 

She  was  well  enough  used  to  bad  language  not  to  be 
shocked,  but  she  was  displeased. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  Angelica, 
"after  all  she's  done  for  you." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  do  nothing  for  me.  I  want  her  to  let 
me  alone.  Listen  here — you  wouldn't  stand  up  for  her  if 
you  knew  the  way  she  talks  about  you.  I  had  the  two  of  them 
out  the  other  day,  and  they  were  fighting  about  you  all  the 
time.  She  said  you  was  no  good,  and  she  guessed  you'd  stole 
things  off  her;  but  Mrs.  G.,  she  says  no,  you're  all  right. 
Then  she  says  you'd  make  trouble  in  the  house,  and  Mrs.  G. 
says,  'Well,  ain't  there  enough  trouble  there  anyway?  What 
do  we  care  if  we  get  a  little  more?  7  want  her  back,'  she 
says.  'All  right,'  says  the  old  lady,  'have  her,  if  you  want 
her,  but  don't  kick  if  you  find  your  hus ' ' 

Angelica  had  grown  scarlet. 

"My  Gawd,  what  a  lot  you  talk!"  she  said.  "You  better 
be  starting  home." 

He  eyed  her  with  resentment. 

"I'll  go !"  he  said.    "Don't  you  worry !" 

After  Courtland  had  gone,  Mrs.  Kennedy  attempted  to 
reprove  her  daughter  for  her  bad  manners,  but  Angelica  in 
sisted  autocratically  that  she  must  go  to  bed  at  once. 

"You  shouldn't  get  up  at  all,"  she  told  her  mother. 

"The  doctor  said  it  wouldn't  hurt  me — just  around  the 
flat." 

"Not  at  night !  You'd  ought  to  know  better.  You  ought 
to  be  asleep  by  this  time.  Now,  listen  here,  mommer!"  she 
added  firmly,  as  she  saw  signs  of  rebellion.  "If  you  don't 
do  what  I  say,  I'm  not  going  to  stay  and  take  care  of  you. 
The  doctor  said  rest.  Well,  this  isn't  rest.  You  got  to  go  to 
bed  this  instant !" 

So  did  she  rid  herself  of  the  necessity  for  talking,  for  lis 
tening,  for  recognizing  the  external  world.  She  was  irrita 
ble  at  the  very  least  disturbance ;  her  joy  had  gone,  and  left 
a  bitter  impatience.  Five  days  before  she  could  go  back  to 


ANGELICA  141 

that  enchanted  house  where  Vincent  lived,  to  be  again  under 
the  same  roof,  sitting  at  the  same  table !  Five  days  lost  out 
of  life,  out  of  her  best  years ! 

She  was  a  little  surprised  and  rather  pleased  at  her  own 
lack  of  morality.  She  really  didn't  care  a  bit,  didn't  feel  in 
the  least  shocked  or  distressed,  at  loving  a  married  man ;  nor 
did  she  hesitate  for  an  instant  at  the  prospect  of  going  off 
with  him.  She  believed  that  was  what  he  meant ;  very  well, 
she  was  ready ! 

She  would  leave  her  poor  little  mother  desolate,  she  would 
humiliate  and  affront  the  kindly  Polly,  she  would  leave  Eddie 
overwhelmed  by  disgrace  and  grief,  and  still  she  didn't  care. 
She  was  deceiving  her  mother,  deceiving  Polly,  shamefully 
deceiving  Eddie,  and  she  didn't  care.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  rather  proud  of  it.  She  felt  that  such  insolent  wicked 
ness  had  in  it  more  than  a  little  magnificence  of  the  sort  pos 
sessed  by  the  magnificent  women  of  the  past. 

Oh,  the  world  was  well  lost  for  Vincent,  her  poet  lover! 
She  read  his  letter  again  and  cried  over  it — -she  who  had  shed 
so  few  tears  in  her  life. 


ii 

But  in  spite  of  all  her  hardihood,  her  pride  in  her  love,  she 
couldn't  help  feeling  a  great  dread  of  Eddie.  She  didn't  like 
to  face  him.  She  had  a  silly  idea  that  by  merely  looking  at 
her  he  might  know  all  that  her  heart  contained ;  and  although 
he  so  much  admired  magnificence,  she  had  no  delusion  as  to 
his  admiring  this ! 

She  got  ready  on  Saturday  afternoon  in  a  state  of  great 
nervousness  that  subdued  even  her  eagerness  to  be  with  Vin 
cent  again.  She  hadn't  seen  either  of  the  brothers  for  the 
past  five  days;  Eddie  had  telephoned  every  day,  but  there 
had  been  no  word  at  all  from  Vincent. 

That  didn't  trouble  her,  however.     She  felt  that  she  and 


142  ANGELICA 

Vincent  understood  each  other  absolutely,  no  matter  how 
long  or  how  far  apart  they  were.  Just  as  she  thought  of 
him,  he  thought  of  her,  longed  for  her.  Her  only  trouble 
was  this  dread;  if  only  it  were  not  Eddie  who*  were  taking 
her  to  him !  It  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  upon  the  boldness 
and  beauty  of  their  love  to  dupe  a  creature  so  blameless  and 
so  generous  as  Eddie. 

He  was  late.  It  had  grown  dark,  and  the  lamp  in  the  par 
lour  was  lighted,  and  she  and  her  mother  sat  in  there,  talking 
- — a  word  now  and  then,  and  long,  long  silences.  They  had 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  Angelica's  heart  had  flown 
forward  to  meet  her  lover,  while  her  mother's  brain  struggled 
wearily  with  the  problems  of  the  minute,  of  the  next  week, 
of  some  one's  ironing,  some  one  else's  scrubbing,  of  whether 
she  were  going  to  earn  enough  to  keep  herself  from  getting 
ill  again.  They  were  effectually  separated  now. 

Came  a  brisk  ring  at  the  bell,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  went  to 
open  the  door. 

"Come  in,  sir !"  Angelica  heard  her  say. 

"Mrs.  Kennedy?"  replied  Eddie's  voice.  "I  hope  you're 
better?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  quite  well  again.  Won't  you  step 
in?" 

Angelica  greeted  him  with  an  uncertain  smile ;  she  didn't 
know  what  his  attitude  would  be.  But  he  was  certainly  not 
vexed,  or  cold,  or  suspicious;  he  was  simply  excited,  not 
himself. 

"Well !"  he  said.    "I've  done  it !" 

"Done  what?"  she  asked. 

"I've  enlisted." 

"You're  going  to  the  war  ?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  approve  of  it.  You  said  it  was 
beastly,  and  everything." 

"Yes,  I  do  think  so;  but " 

He  hesitated,  frowning.    He  didn't  know  how  to  explain ; 


ANGELICA  143 

didn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  honestly  wish  to  explain.  His 
motive  in  going  was  purely  selfish ;  he  hoped  in  battle  to  make 
more  of  a  man  of  himself,  to  glorify  himself.  It  was  the 
same  impulse  which  sent  him  to  historical  books  and  to  tre 
mendous  days  of  -work — his  earnest,  priggish,  sublime  desire 
to  perfect  himself.  He  believed — like  how  many  others! — 
that  he  would  come  back  from  the  war  a  new  man. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  he  said,  and  was  immediately 
ashamed  of  this  self-righteous  phrase. 

Angelica,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  not  much  impressed  by  the 
war.  It  never  stirred  or  moved  her  much  at  any  time.  She 
felt  neither  belligerent  nor  pacifist.  She  simply  took  it  for 
granted.  She  was  one  of  those  peasant  natures  for  whom 
it  is  quite  impossible  to  feel  either  love  or  hate  in  the  abstract. 
She  could  have  hated  with  royal  hatred  a  German  who  mo 
lested  her,  but  she  had  no  ill-will  toward  a  German  who  in 
vaded  Belgium.  And  as  for  fine  phrases  about  it,  her  rough 
and  vigorous  mind  rejected  them  all.  Ought  to  go?  Why 
ought  he  to  go?  Just  what  did  he  expect  to  accomplish? 

However,  she  didn't  say  this,  any  more  than  she  allowed 
the  least  hint  of  her  great  relief  to  show.  That  was  the  first 
thought  that  crossed  her  mind — how  much  better  it  would 
be  if  Eddie  were  away! 

Mrs.  Kennedy  shook  her  head. 

"It's  too  bad!"  she  said.    "Think  of  your  poor  mother!" 

Eddie  could  find  nothing  to  say  to  that. 

"Suppose  you  should  be  killed?"  Mrs.  Kennedy  went  on, 
with  a  sort  of  severity,  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  a  person 
who  persistently  sat  in  a  draft. 

"It  wouldn't  matter  very  much,"  said  Eddie,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "Good  night,  Mrs.  Kennedy!  Be  sure  to  take  care 
of  yourself!" 

Angelica  followed  him  out  and  climbed  into  the  car  beside 
him.  Those  last  words  of  his  had  hurt  her,  had  brought  to 
her  mind  the  thought  of  his  loneliness,  and  memories  of  his 


144  ANGELICA 

kindnesses  and  of  his  little,  oddly  touching  traits.  She  was 
pursued  by  a  great  remorse  and  a  great  regret. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  going!"  she  said,  with  a  break  in  her 
voice. 

"I  know  you  are;  but  don't  be  sentimental  about  it.  I 
couldn't  stand  that.  Be  cheerful !" 

"I'm  not  sentimental,"  she  said,  forcing  her  voice  to  be 
steady.  "Only — I  think  a  lot  of  you.  Every  one  '11  miss 
you." 

"No!"  replied  Eddie.  "No  one  will  miss  me,  except  per 
haps  you.  No  one  else  at  all,  Angelica." 

They  were  spinning  along  dark  country  roads  now,  and  he 
could  not  see  her  stealthy  tears.  She  was  thinking — wasn't 
she  perhaps  a  fool  to  let  him  go?" 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry!"  she  said  again.  "I  wish  I  could 
have- 

"I  know !"  he  said.  "You  can't  help  it.  I — don't  blame 
you.  I'm  not  lovable." 

"You  are!" 

"No,  I'm  not.  There's  nothing  about  me  that  a  girl  like 
you  could  fall  in  love  with.  I  know  that  with  women  that's 
the  chief  thing — love;  but  men  are  made  of  coarser  stuff. 
Even  if  you  didn't  love  me,  Angelica,  I — I  wish  you  \vould 
marry  me.  I'm  not  boasting,  but  I  could  do  a  great  deal  for 
you.  If  you  could  only  hear  how  other  men  speak  of  me! 
I'm  doing  bigger  things  in  business — all  the  time.  I — I 
know  I  seem  like  a  fool.  Maybe  I  am,  at  home ;  but  I'm  not 
a  fool  in  finance.  I'll  be  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  country 
some  day,  Angelica." 

"I  never  thought  you  were  a  fool.  Indeed,  I  think  you're 
wonderful.  I  think  you're — I'm  sure  you'll  do  whatever  you 
set  out  to  do." 

"But  wouldn't  you  like  to  help  me?  Things  are  so  mud 
dled  and  wasteful  at  home  now.  If  I  had  a  wife  like  you, 
Angelica,  to  manage  there  for  me,  while  I'm  away !  I  need 
you  so  much !" 


ANGELICA  145 

"Oh,  deary!"  she  cried.  "Please  don't!  I'm  so  sorry, 
but  I  just  can't!" 

He  drove  silently  for  a  long  time,  until  the  lights  of  that 
home  of  his — named  with  such  Eddie-like  pomposity — came 
into  view.  Then  he  said,  quite  serenely  and  kindly : 

"I'll  be  your  friend,  anyway,  Angelica — always!" 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 


Angelica  saw  no  one  that  night ;  but  when  she  passed  by 
the  library,  the  door  was  half  open  and  she  heard  voices  in 
there — an  unusual  thing  for  that  unsociable  family. 

Eddie  went  with  her  to  the  door  of  her  room  and  wished 
her  a  good  night,  but  she  did  not  have  one.  She  slept  fitfully, 
and  she  had  heart-breaking  dreams.  She  felt  confused  and 
unhappy,  awake  or  asleep.  She  couldn't  shake  off  that  dull 
remorse,  or  a  certain  sense  of  great  loss  which  haunted  her. 

She  got  up  early,  hoping  that  she  might  find  Vincent  and 
talk  to  him,  and  arrange  with  him  to  put  an  end  to  this 
wretched,  intolerable  situation.  She  couldn't  go  on  like  this, 
in  Eddie's  house,  meeting  him  every  day.  She  felt  sure  that 
Vincent  must  feel  this  as  she  did,  or  perhaps  still  more  bit 
terly.  She  looked  forward  to  it  as  an  exquisite  relief,  to  pour 
out  her  heart  to  him,  sure  of  his  apprehension ;  sure,  too,  that 
he  would  admire  her  fine  feeling. 

She  was  surprised,  when  she  reached  the  breakfast-room, 
to  see  them  all  at  the  table  together — Polly  and  Mrs.  Russell 
up  and  dressed  hours  before  their  usual  time;  the  doctor 
serious;  Vincent  in  a  neat  dark  suit  and  a  new  air  of  de 
corum.  He  glanced  up  as  Angelica  entered,  and  smiled, 
casually,  the  meaningless  smile  of  his  mother;  then  his  eyes 
turned  away.  It  wasn't  a  ruse;  he  wasn't  pretending  to  be 
indifferent ;  she  could  see  that  he  really  was  so. 

Polly  made  polite  inquiries  about  Angelica's  mother,  and 
then  they  had  finished  with  her,  and  returned  to  their  own 
absorbing  preoccupation — the  war. 

In  this  one  short  week  they  had  plunged  into  the  war  with 

146 


ANGELICA  147 

fervour,  led  by  Vincent.  They  cared  for  nothing  else.  Mrs. 
Russell  had  organized  a  tennis  tournament  for  Stricken  Bel 
gium;  her  specialty  was  getting  up  entertainments  and  re 
counting  atrocities  of  a  certain  sort.  Ordinarily  there  were 
all  sorts  of  fascinating  subjects  which  one  couldn't  discuss, 
all  sorts  of  the  most  interesting  semi-medical  details  which 
were  unhappily  tabu;  but  now,  provided  one  told  of  it  as 
done  by  a  German,  one  might  say  anything.  Nothing  was 
too  degenerate,  too  shocking. 

Polly  spent  much  of  her  time  in  the  Red  Cross  work 
rooms,  rolling  bandages.  She  could  do  this  with  all  her  heart, 
without  betraying  a  secret  pity  she  felt  for  Germany.  She 
had  lived  there  so  long,  and  had  been  so  happy  in  her  student 
days.  She  was  convinced  that  the  Germans  were  very 
wicked,  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  conquer  them,  but  all 
the  same  she  was  sorry  for  them;  and  she  persisted  in  her 
firm  hope  that  her  own  country  would  never  enter  the  war. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  do  sympathize  with  the  Allies.  I  hope 
they'll  win.  I'm  glad  and  willing  to  help  them;  but  I'd 
rather  see  them  lose  than  to  see  any  of  our  own  boys  killed!" 

She  kept  to  herself  the  horror  she  felt  at  the  idea  of  some 
nice  American  boy  killing  one  of  those  magnificent,  insolent 
German  officers  she  had  always  so  admired. 

Moreover,  she  didn't  like  the  English.  She  had  all  the 
resentment,  all  the  prejudices,  of  her  little  Ohio  town  against 
that  lordly  race.  It  wasn't  Vincent's  fantastic  Irish  hate ;  it 
wasn't  really  hate  at  all,  simply  a  stubborn  dislike.  She  found 
a  compromise,  as  he  did,  by  a  preposterous  worship  of  all 
things  French.  They  were  apparently  fighting  the  war 
alone  against  overwhelming  numbers  of  Germans,  somewhat 
hindered  by  a  small  and  very  stupid  British  army. 

Vincent  gave  a  sort  of  inspired  dissertation  upon  the 
French,  which  deeply  moved  his  family  but  failed  to  move 
Angelica.  She  was  too  stunned  by  this  change  of  atmos 
phere.  She  was  of  no  significance  now;  she  wasn't  useful, 
she  wasn't  interesting.  No  one — not  even  Vincent — gave 


148  ANGELICA 

her  another  glance;  and  Eddie,  her  steadfast  friend,  wasn't 
there. 

But  the  greatest  blow  of  all  was  Vincent's  attitude  toward 
Polly,  his  friendly  deference,  their  air  of  complete  harmony. 
She  watched  them,  saw  them  exchange  smiles  and  glances, 
listened  to  their  familiar  talk. 

He  left  directly  the  meal  was  finished,  and  Polly  went  up 
stairs  to  put  on  her  hat. 

"I'm  going  to  work  all  morning,"  she  said.  "You  can 
come  with  me  and  roll  bandages,  or,  if  you'd  rather,  you  can 
stay  at  home  and  trim  that  hat  for  me." 

"I'll  stay  home,"  said  Angelica. 

But  Polly  lingered,  inexcusably,  to  talk  about  Vincent — 
how  Vincent  and  she  went  to  this  meeting,  how  Vincent  and 
she  said  this,  how  Vincent  and  she  thought  that.  They  both 
knew  that  this  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  crowing.  Polly 
had  vanquished  Angelica.  She  had  got  him  back ! 

Of  course  she  had  no  actual  information  as  to  his  philan 
dering  with  her  companion,  but  she  had  observed,  she  had 
put  two  and  two  together.  She  had  never  suspected  actual 
wrongdoing;  she  didn't  imagine,  somehow,  that  there  was 
anything  in  Angelica's  conduct  to  blame.  She  simply  thought 
that  Vincent  had  too  much  admired  this  lovely  young  thing, 
and  that  Angelica  had  had  her  head  turned  by  the  flattery  of 
his  attention.  She  felt  justified  in  pressing  her  advantage. 

Angelica  endured  it  stoically.  She  wouldn't  show  even 
any  interest.  She  listened  to  this  talk  of  Vincent  with  rude 
inattention,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  yawn. 

"He  is  wonderful,"  said  Polly.  "He's  organized  a  sort  of 
club — the  Friends  of  France — men  that  can't  go  themselves, 
but  pledge  themselves  to  get  recruits.  He  says  the  war  has 
stirred  his  faith.  I'm  very  glad.  He's  doing  wonderful 
work!" 

"Why  don't  he  enlist,  like  Mr.  Eddie?" 

"My  dear,  he'd  never  serve  under  the  British  flag.  Eddie's 
in  the  Canadian  service.  Vincent's  Irish,  you  see." 


ANGELICA  149 

"Well,  isn't  Mr.  Eddie  the  same  as  he?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so;  but  he's  a  different  sort  of  Irish 
man." 

"Well,  why  don't  he  serve  under  the  French  flag,  then,  if 
he's  so  fond  of  it?" 

"He  can  do  more  good  as  he  is.  There  are  plenty  of  men 
who  can  fight,  but  there  are  very  few  who  have  Vincent's 
wonderful  eloquence." 

"He  said  he  was  crazy  to  go,"  said  Angelica;  "but  I  notice 
he  doesn't." 

"He's  married,  too,  you  must  remember,"  said  Polly. 
"That  makes  a  difference.  Married  men  aren't  supposed  to 
go  till  the  very  last." 

Their  eyes  met. 

"Take  him !"  said  Angelica's  glance.  "I  don't  care!"  But 
after  Polly  had  gone,  she  took  out  Vincent's  letter  and  read 
it  again.  She  couldn't  understand  it !  She  felt  bruised,  and 
weary,  and  sick  at  heart,  and  baffled.  A  letter  like  that,  en 
treating  her  to  come  back  to  him,  and,  when  she  came,  to  find 
him  on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  wife  and  quite  indifferent 
to  her! 

"But  perhaps  later,  when  we're  alone,"  she  thought,  "he'll 
say  something." 

But  all  that  day,  and  that  evening,  not  a  word,  and  the 
next  day,  too,  until  it  grew  plain  to  her  that  he  didn't  intend 
to  see  her  alone,  that  he  was  avoiding  her. 

So  the  next  morning  she  wrote  a  note  and  slipped  it  under 
his  door : 

I  want  to  see  you. 

He  made  no  sort  of  answer;  he  went  on  all  day  as  if  she 
didn't  exist ;  he  wouldn't  even  meet  her  eye.  When  he  wasn't 
going  out  in  the  motor  to  make  speeches  for  the  Friends  of 
France,  he  was  sitting  in  Polly's  room,  telling  her  what  he 


ISO  ANGELICA 

had  said  at  the  last  meeting  and  what  he  was  going  to  say  at 
the  next  one. 

But  Angelica  was  not  to  be  disposed  of  so  simply.  She 
made  up  her  mind  that  he  would  have  to  speak,  he  would 
have  to  tell  her  outright  that  he  didn't  love  her. 

"He  won't  find  it  hard  to  get  rid  of  me !"  she  thought,  bit 
terly.  "But  he's  got  to  say.  I  want  to  understand.  What 
does  he  write  me  a  letter  like  that  for,  and  then  be  this  way  ?" 

She  had  a  feeble  little  hope  that  perhaps  it  was  only  his 
feeling  of  duty  that  kept  him  from  her,  that  he  loved  her  and 
didn't  dare  to  see  her.  She  felt  that  if  he  would  just  say  that 
he  loved  her,  but  that  they  must  give  up  all  thought  of  each 
other,  she  would  be  satisfied.  She  could  go  on  living,  if  she 
had  that  knowledge.  Something,  however,  he  must  say. 

On  the  third  evening  she  lay  in  wait  for  him.  Polly  and 
Mrs.  Russell  had  gone  to  bed,  and  he  hadn't  returned  yet 
from  a  lecture  he  was  giving  in  the  village ;  so  she  turned  out 
the  light  in  her  room  and  sat  in  the  dark,  with  the  door  open, 
waiting. 

It  was  a  melancholy  October*  night.  The  leaves  from  the 
linden  rustled  against  her  window  as  they  were  blown  from 
the  branches,  and  a  constant,  monotonous,  low  wind  blew, 
with  a  sound  like  rain.  She  sat  as  still  as  a  spider  in  a  web, 
grim,  unhappy,  rilled  with  apprehension. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  came  in.  She  saw  him  hurry 
down  the  hall  in  his  wet  ulster  and  cap,  and  go  into  his  own 
room.  She  was  after  him  before  he  had  time  to  close  the 
door. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you !"  she  said.  "Why  didn't  you  let 
me?  Don't  you  want  to  see  me ?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "No,  Angelica,  I  don't."  He  hadn't  even 
removed  his  cap.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door. 
"You  shouldn't  have  come  here,"  he  said.  "Some  one  might 
see  you." 

"I  don't  care!  I  want  to  know.  What's  the  matter? 
What's  happened?" 


ANGELICA  151 

"I  hoped,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  you'd  let  it  drop  without 
an  explanation  which  is  bound  to  be  painful  for  both  of  us." 

"I  want  to  know  where  I  stand.     I  want  you  to  say." 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.    "I  suppose  we'll  have  to  have  it  out." 

She  did  sit  down,  and  waited  while  he  took  off  his  wet 
things,  brushed  his  hair,  and  put  on  a  smoking- jacket.  She 
was  interested  by  his  room ;  for  a  few  moments  it  distracted 
her  unhappy  heart.  It  was  a  curious  room  splendidly  fur 
nished  in  black  and  gold  enamel.  There  was  a  sort  of 
Chinese  idea  about  it,  shockingly  adulterated  by  European 
luxury ;  long  mirrors,  armchairs  upholstered  in  purple,  great 
bookcases,  a  black  and  gray  velvet  rug  on  the  polished  floor, 
a  marvelous  lacquer  screen  concealing  the  bed,  a  little  stand 
on  which  was  a  tea-set  of  pale  gray  porcelain  with  an  odd 
black  design.  There  were  pictures  on  the  wall — shocking, 
startling  things,  obscene  subjects  in  brilliant  colours;  and  in 
the  corner  a  great  ebony  crucifix. 

This  exotic  and  voluptuous  setting  dismayed  her.  It 
proclaimed  a  Vincent  of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  and  whom 
she  could  never  comprehend.  How  in  Heaven's  name  was 
she  to  understand  the  poetic  side  of  the  man,  she  so  unpoetic, 
so  crude?  A  man  with  tea-sets  and  crucifixes  and  such  pic 
tures  ! 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her  in  a  low,  cushioned  chair,  his 
head  bent,  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees.  Her  foolish 
eyes  could  see,  with  tears,  that  rough,  bright  hair,  those  fine, 
strong  hands. 

"Angelica,"  he  began,  not  looking  at  her,  "I've  been  a 
coward  with  you.  I've  shirked  this,  because  it  is  so  intoler 
ably  hard  to  do." 

She  waited  in  anguish,  with  no  idea  of  what  she  was  to 
hear. 

"You  see,  Angelica,  the  war  has  opened  my  eyes.  I  was — 
just  going  on,  lost  in  your  beauty  and  loveliness,  not  thinking 
— drifting,  drifting  to  hell,  and  taking  you  with  me.  And 
then  came  this  thing,  this  deafening,  colossal  call  to  self-sac- 


152  ANGELICA 

rifice,  this  monstrous  revealment  of  the  glory  and  holiness  of 
duty.  I'm  not  callous.  I  couldn't  help  but  heed  it.  I 
couldn't  go  on  in  my  old  gross  self-indulgence.  Angelica!" 
he  said,  looking  up  and  meeting  her  eyes.  "This  war  has 
brought  me  back  to  Go'd !" 

"But,"  she  faltered,  "what  does " 

"It  means  that  I  must  give  you  up.  My  love  for  you  is  a 
sin.  For  me,  a  poet,  slave  and  servant  of  beauty,  you  are 
temptation  incarnate.  You  can't  understand  that.  You  are 
as  cold,  as  pure,  as  an  angel.  You  don't  realize  what  love 
like  mine  is." 

"I'm  not!"  she  cried,  pitifully.  "I  do  understand!  I'm 
not  cold!" 

"Compared  to  me  you  are.  My  love  for  you  was  madness. 
I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else.  It  wasn't  the  gentle  affec 
tion  you  felt." 

"I  didn't  feel  a  gentle  affection !"  she  cried,  in  tears.  "You 
couldn't  love  me  more  than  I  love  you !" 

"Do  you?"  he  asked,  in  a  sort  of  stealthy  triumph. 

She  didn't  see  that.  She  was  utterly  sincere ;  and  her  beau 
tiful  sincerity,  her  tears,  suddenly  moved  him  to  one  of  those 
tempests  of  remorse  to  which  he  was  so  prone. 

"Oh,  God !"  he  cried.  "What  a  brute  I  am !  I  talk  about 
giving  you  up,  and  all  the  time  I'm  watching  your  face  for 
signs  of  love.  How  can  I  find  the  strength  to  let  you  go?" 

"Don't!"  said  Angelica,  with  streaming  eyes.  "Don't  let 
me  go,  Vincent  darling !  Oh,  if  only  we  have  each  other !" 

"We  can't  have  each  other.  It's  a  sin!"  he  said.  "Don't 
you  see?  Oh,  Angelica!  Beautiful  Angelica!  Why  don't 
you  help  me  ?  Why  do  you  try  to  draw  me  down,  and  ruin 
me,  and  destroy  me  ?"  He  sprang  up,  his  fine  face  distorted 
with  grief  and  passion.  "You  don't  know!"  he  cried.  "Oh, 
my  God !  I  have  sinned !  I  have  sinned !  You  don't  know 
after  what  sufferings,  what  weary  wanderings,  I  have  come 
back  to  God!  You  cannot  imagine!  There  is  nothing  I 
have  not  done ;  no  infamy  I  have  not  committed !" 


ANGELICA  153 

And  then  he  began  his  awful  catalogue.  He  told  her  of 
his  sins,  his  vices — vile  enough  in  reality,  but  exaggerated  by 
his  hysteria.  He  had  no  medium  between  ingenious  self- 
excuse  and  the  wildest  self-accusation.  He  took  a  monstrous 
sort  of  joy  in  his  horrible  recital.  He  remembered  incidents 
from  his  boyhood,  of  cruelty,  bestiality,  lust,  drunkenness, 
theft,  every  sort  of  dishonour. 

"I've  been  in  prison,"  he  said.  "No  one  knows.  They 
thought  I  was  in  Canada  that  year.  I've  stolen  from  my  own 
wife  and  spent  the  money  on  vile  women.  I've  been  kicked 
out  of  disreputable  hotels." 

It  went  on  and  on,  a  nightmare,  things  that  Angelica  had 
never  imagined,  all  told  in  his  coarse  and  vivid  language 
which  impressed  his  images  upon  her  mind  forever. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried.  "I'm  appalled!  How  can  even 
the  God  of  mercy  forgive  such  things?  Angelica!  I  am 
lost!" 

He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  and  buried  his 
head  in  her  lap. 

"I  have  been  in  hell !"  he  cried.  "What  am  I  to  do  ?  God, 
who  sees  my  heart,  knows  that  I  repent;  but  is  it  enough?" 

A  feeling  new  to  Angelica  came  over  her,  a  divine  kindli 
ness  and  pity.  She  stroked  his  ruffled  hair,  and  tried,  in  her 
blindness,  her  bewilderment,  to  find  words  to  comfort  him. 

"Of  course !"  she  said.  "If  you're  sorry,  it  '11  be  all  right. 
You  can  start  all  over  again." 

With  his  head  still  buried,  he  flung  his  arms  about  her 
waist  and  began  to  sob,  hoarse,  terrible  sobs.  She  couldn't 
bear  it. 

"Oh,  don't !    Don't,  darling !"  she  cried. 

He  raised  his  head. 

"I  must  be  mad !"  he  said.  "I'm  so  tortured.  I  long  so,  I 
yearn  so,  after  God.  I  want  to  be  alone  with  Him,  to  con 
template  Him  forever,  in  solitude — in  a  desert — to  pray  to 
Him — to  make  my  songs  to  Him.  Almost  all  my  verses  are 
of  God,  Angelica.  And  then  I  see  a  lovely  face — I  drink 


154  ANGELICA 

another  glass  of  wine — I  read  a  line  of  voluptuous  beauty 
— and  I  am  lost  again.  How  will  it  end  ?  Oh,  my  merciful 
God,  how  will  it  end?" 

She  spent  almost  all  the  night  trying  to  quiet  and  console 
Vincent.  She  drew  his  head  against  her  breast  and  kissed 
his  forehead  while  she  talked  to  him.  She  found,  almost 
miraculously,  words  and  ideas  which  gave  him  comfort,  but 
with  an  effort  which  was  torment  for  her.  She  had  a  sensa 
tion  of  fishing  in  the  depths  of  her  mind,  and  painfully  haul 
ing  out  some  thought  which  she  had  not  been  conscious  of 
having  there.  Her  love  lent  her  insight;  she  discerned  the 
grain  of  terror  that  lay  beneath  the  chaff  of  his  theatrical 
eloquence.  She  was  able  to  talk  to  him  with  piety — she  who 
had  no  religion,  and  had  never  given  a  thought  to  such  mat 
ters.  She  assured  him  that  his  repentance  would  wipe  out 
his  sins. 

"Why,  Vincent !"  she  said.  "I  could  forgive  anything  you 
did;  and  you  know  God  must  be  more  forgiving  than  me." 

Steadfast,  gentle,  patient  as  an  angel,  she  sat  with  him, 
listened  to  his  confessions,  his  self -accusations,  and  absolved 
him  in  her  love.  Who  could  hold  the  man  to  blame  for  those 
faults  which  were  his  essence?  Not  God — not  she! 


ii 

The  clock  had  struck  four.  They  were  sitting  side  by  side 
on  the  sofa,  both  exhausted,  pale,  quite  calm  now.  Vincent 
began  to  talk  again,  more  in  his  usual  voice. 

"Angelica,"  he  said,  "Eddie  told  me  that  he  asked  you  to 
marry  him,  and  that  you  refused  him." 

"Of  course  I  did,  Vincent." 

"It  was  a  mistake,  my  dear.  It's  the  very  best  thing  you 
could  do — both  for  yourself  and  for  me." 

"Oh,  Vincent!"  she  cried.  "I  couldn't!  You  know  I 
couldn't!" 


ANGELICA  155 

"Angelica,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "do  it  for  my  sake.  Be 
my  sister.  I  swear  to  you  that  all  base  and  sensual  feelings 
have  left  my  heart.  I  am  purged  of  all  my  lust." 

Well,  so  he  was,  for  the  moment;  but  by  weariness,  not 
by  religion.  He  had  talked  himself  into  exhaustion. 

"You  couldn't  do  better,"  he  went  on.  "I'm  not  selfish, 
not  jealous.  My  wish  is  to  see  you  happy,  and  you  would 
be  happy  with  Eddie.  He's  a  good  man." 

He  was,  in  fact,  so  worn  out  after  his  outburst  that  he  felt 
compelled  to  get  rid  of  Angelica,  not  only  for  the  present, 
but  forever.  He  didn't  recognize  the  feeling.  He  was  con 
scious  only  of  a  great  desire  to  dispose  of  her,  which  he 
fancied  was  concern  for  her  welfare. 

"I  want  to  see  your  life  happy  and  blessed,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  see  you  with  your  children  about  you,  you  with  your 
beautiful  Madonna  face.  I  want  always  to  be  near  you,  but 
only  to  worship  you.  I  will  be  your  brother,  your  friend. 
I  long  to  see  this,  Angelica!" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  to.  It  wouldn't  suit  me. 
I'm  not  so  crazy  about  getting  married,  anyway." 

"For  me,  Angelica !    I  beg  you !" 

"No,  not  even  for  you.  I  don't  want  to,  and  that's  enough. 
I'm  young,  Vincent.  I  have  all  my  life  before  me.  You 
needn't  worry  about  me."  A  mortal  weariness  assailed  her. 
"I  guess  I'll  go  now,"  she  said.  "I'm  pretty  tired.  Good 
night,  Vincent!" 

He  kissed  her  solemnly  on  the  brow  and  opened  the  door 
for  her.  She  shut  herself  into  her  own  room. 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  she  sighed.  "Now  what?  This  is  getting 
too  much  for  me.  Can't  even  think  any  more.  I  don't 
know " 

She  undressed  and  got  into  bed,  though  the  sky  had  grown 
gray  in  the  east.  She  felt  obliged  to  sleep,  even  if  it  were 
only  for  an  hour ;  but  before  she  closed  her  eyes 

"One  thing's  certain,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  away  from 
here,  right  away.  I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this !" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 


This  one  idea  remained  with  her  when  she  got  up  from 
her  brief  sleep — this  determination  to  get  away.  Except  for 
this,  she  was  drained  quite  dry  of  all  ideas,  all  feelings.  She 
was  not  poetic;  she  hadn't  the  astounding  variations  of  a 
poetic  soul  such  as  Vincent's.  She  was  not  at  all  easy  to 
move,  and  when  she  was  thoroughly  aroused — to  pity,  to 
love,  to  grief,  to  whatever  it  might  be — it  took  a  very  long 
time  for  the  tempest  to  calm.  She  wanted  now  simply  to 
get  away  alone,  where  she  might  examine  this  turmoil  in 
her  heart. 

She  packed  her  bag,  put  on  her  hat  and  coat,  and  went  to 
Polly's  room. 

Polly  was  dressing  in  her  very  leisurely  fashion,  going  to 
and  fro  in  the  room,  and  stopping  now  and  then  before  the 
table  where  her  coffee  and  rolls  were  laid.  She  was  in  petti 
coat  and  under-bodice,  with  her  thin,  sallow  arms  and  neck 
bare  and  her  black  hair  hanging  about  her  face.  She  had  a 
forlorn  and  jaded  look — for  which,  however,  Angelica  had 
no  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Geraldine,"  she  said,  "I  got  to  go.  I  want  to  go 
right  away — to-day.  I  don't  feel  well." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  my  dear!    What's  the  trouble?" 

"I'm  just  tired.  I've  just  got  to  get  away.  I  want  to 
go  home." 

"But  if  you're  not  very  well,  wouldn't  you  be  more  com 
fortable  here?" 

"No.  I  want  to  go  home.  I — you  know  how  it  is,  Mrs. 
Geraldine,  when  you  feel  you  just  got  to  go  home!" 

156 


ANGELICA  157 

Indeed  Polly  knew! 

"For  how  long?"  she  asked.  "You  don't  think  you're 
really  seriously  ill,  do  you?  You  think  a  little  rest  at  home 
will  set  you  up  in  a  very  short  time  ?" 

Angelica  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  don't  think "  she  began.  "I  don't  guess  I'll  come 

back." 

"Never  ?" 

"No." 

"But  aren't  you  happy  here?  Aren't  you  comfortable? 
Tell  me  what's  wrong,  and  perhaps  we  can  arrange  it." 

"You  couldn't.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  stay — not  for 
anything." 

There  was  no  mistaking  Angelica's  tone.  Polly  saw  that 
the  girl  was  absolutely  determined  and  not  to  be  turned — not 
without  a  long  argument,  anyway,  and  that  she  had  no  desire 
to  undertake.  What  is  more,  she  had  too  much  sense  to 
ask  questions.  She  had  a  suspicion  that  her  husband  was 
somehow  concerned  in  Angelica's  going ;  there  was  probably 
a  great  deal  in  this  thing  of  which  she  decidedly  preferred 
to  remain  ignorant. 

She  wasn't  jealous ;  that  had  worn  off  on  that  first  evening 
of  Vincent's  home-coming.  It  had  hurt  her  dreadfully,  then, 
to  see  his  glance  turn  always  away  from  her  and  toward  this 
younger  and  lovelier  face;  but  now  she  didn't  care  whether 
he  -was  infatuated  with  Angelica  or  any  one  else.  She  was 
pleased  simply  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  him,  to  have  him 
agreeable  instead  of  contemptuous,  and  she  knew  that  was 
the  best  she  could  expect. 

She  had  not  the  slightest  hope  of  winning  him  back;  she 
didn't  even  want  to  very  much.  She  was  so  tired;  she 
dreaded  the  necessity  which  love  brings  for  effort — for  keep 
ing  up,  in  appearances,  in  spirits.  She  preferred  that  Vin 
cent  should  never  look  at  her  at  all,  rather  than  to  have  to 
endure  his  old  critical  glance.  She  was  only  too  conscious 
of  her  sad  decline. 


i$8  ANGELICA 

So  there  was  nothing  in  her  heart  but  real  regret  that 
Angelica  was  going.  She  liked  her  very  much,  and  was 
used  to  her. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  lose  you,"  she  said.  "I'd  hoped  you 
were  quite  settled  here.  I'll  miss  you  more  than  I  can  say." 

"You've  been  very  nice  to  me,"  said  Angelica. 

"And  you  must  always  remember  me  as  a  friend.  If  there 
is  ever  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you,  come  to  me.  I 
mean  it!" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Angelica  gripped  it. 

"Good-by!"  said  Polly  again.  "And  good  luck!  I  hope 
you'll  let  me  know  how  you  get  on." 

"Yes,  I  will.  But  listen,  Mrs.  Geraldine — can  I  have  my 
money?" 

"Certainly!  You'll  have  to  get  it  from  Mr.  Geraldine, 
though.  He's  in  the  library,  writing." 

Angelica  was  dismayed. 

"No,"  she  faltered.  "I  don't  want  to  bother  him.  If 
you'll  just  give  me  my  train  fare,  you  could  send  me  the 
rest." 

"My  dear,  I  don't  think  I  have  even  enough  for  your  fare. 
Mr.  Geraldine  handles  all  my  money  for  me." 

She  was  a  little  ashamed  of  this  arrangement,  to  which 
she  had  eagerly  agreed  when  she  and  Vincent  were  first  mar 
ried.  It  humiliated  her  to  be  thus,  without  a  penny. 

"You  needn't  mind  disturbing  him,"  she  said.  "He  ex 
pects  to  do  such  things  for  me.  Come  up  and  say  good-by 
to  me  the  last  thing  before  you  go,  won't  you?" 

Angelica  said  "Yes,"  quite  absently.  She  was  thinking 
how  this  interview  with  Vincent  might  be  avoided.  It  was 
the  thing  above  all  others  she  most  desired  to  avoid.  She 
had  meant  to  go  off  quickly,  to  get  home,  where  she  could 
think  in  peace,  where  she  could  try  a  little  to  remember  and 
to  comprehend  what  had  happened.  She  didn't  attempt  to 
decide  whether  or  not  she  would  ever  see  Vincent  again ;  she 
knew  only  that  she  did  not  want  to  see  him  now.  But  she 


ANGELICA  159 

was  too  well-trained  in  poverty,  and  had  too  much  common 
sense,  to  go  off  penniless,  without  even  her  train  fare,  when 
there  was  honestly  earned  money  due  to  her. 

"Shall  I  wait  for  Eddie  to  come  home?"  she  reflected. 

No,  that  wouldn't  do  at  all.  She  wouldn't  know  what  to 
say  to  Eddie,  how  to  explain  her  leaving.  She  felt  absolutely 
afraid  to  see  him. 

"I'll  just  have  to  go  to  Vincent,"  she  decided.  "But  I'm 
going!  He  can't  stop  me — I  don't  care  what  he  says !" 

It  took  all  her  courage.  She  went  down-stairs  and  into  the 
library.  There  he  sat,  writing,  as  Polly  had  said.  He  didn't 
look  up.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting,  for  a  few 
minutes ;  then  she  said : 

"Mr.  Geraldine!" 

"Yes?"  he  asked,  not  looking  up  from  his  writing. 

"Mrs.  Geraldine  told  me  to  come  to  you  and  get  my 
money." 

"I  can't  be  bothered  now!"  he  said  irritably.  "I'm  busy. 
Can't  you  see?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I've  got  to  have  it.     I'm  going." 

"Going,  Angelica?"  he  said,  looking  up  at  last. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  catch  the  ten-forty.  So  if  you'll  just 
give  me  my  money,  I'll  go  right  away." 

He  resumed  his  writing. 

"Too  bad !"  he  said.    "I  really  haven't  got  it." 

"Please  don't  be  so  mean !"  she  cried.  "For  Gawd's  sake, 
give  it  to  me,  and  let  me  go !"  Her  fatigue  and  her  distress 
at  his  callousness  were  unnerving  her.  She  felt  ready  to 
burst  into  tears.  "Just  give  it  to  me  and  let  me  go!"  she 
said  again. 

"I  haven't  it,"  said  Vincent. 

"You  haven't  got  any  money?" 

"Not  a  sou." 

"But  you  can  get  it  for  me?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  my  dear,  dear  girl.    You'll  have  to  wait." 


160  ANGELICA 

"How  long — an  hour?" 

"I  can't  say." 

"But  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  haven't  any  money.    I  said  so  before." 

"But  Mrs.  Geraldine  said  you  had  all  her  money." 

"Then  Mrs.  Geraldine  will  have  to  be  informed,  very 
kindly,  that  her  income  is  mortgaged  for  the  next  two  years. 
I  had  to  do  it.  You  see,  she  has  a  little  annuity,  which  she 
lets  me  collect.  Well,  I  was  embarrassed.  I  had  to  borrow 
money  against  it.  So,  you  see,  that's  that!  She  hasn't  any 
thing;  and  I — I'm  penniless  as  a  gipsy.  Now  you  compre 
hend,  I  hope." 

And  to  her  amazement  he  began  to  write  again. 

"Say !"  The  cried.    "This  won't  do !" 

"Don't  bother  me,  my  dear  girl.  I'm  at  work,"  he  said, 
frowning.  "On  a  poem." 

"But  you  can't  put  me  off  like  this !" 

"I'm  writing!"  he  cried,  in  a  sudden  rage.  "I  don't  care 
about  you  and  your  money.  Let  me  alone!" 

"You've  got  to  stop  writing,  then.  7  don't  care  about  you 
and  your  writing.  You've  got  to  pay  me !" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Get  out !"  he  shouted.  "How  dare  you  trouble  me  about 
your  dirty  money?  Good  God!  Lines  such  as  I  had,  ready 
to  put  down,  and  to  have  them  ruined  by  a  greedy,  good-for- 
nothing  little  servant  girl!  I  have  no  money.  If  I  had,  I 
wouldn't  give  it  to  you.  You  don't  deserve  it.  Idling  away 
your  time,  aping  your  betters,  draggling  about  in  their  cast- 
off  finery!  If  they  weren't  both  of  them  lazy  and  worthless 
themselves,  they'd  have  turned  you  out  long  ago.  Get  out!" 

And  he  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  thrust  her  into  the  hall, 
slamming  the  door  behind  her. 

Angelica  rushed  up-stairs  like  a  whirlwind  and  into  Polly's 
room,  panting,  quite  beside  herself  with  fury. 

"Him!"  she  cried.  "He  turned  me  out!  Took  me  by 
the  arm  and  shoved  me  out  into  the  hall !  He " 


ANGELICA  161 

Polly  had  been  putting  on  her  hat  before  the  mirror,  but 
she  threw  it  down  in  haste,  to  give  all  her  attention  to  this 
frantic  young  thing. 

"What  were  you  saying  to  him?"  she  asked,  mildly. 

"Nothing!  Not  a  blame  thing!  Only  just  asking  him 
for  my  money,  like  you  told  me.  Ah,  he's  a  fine  feller,  he  is ! 
The  names  he  called  me — and  just  last  night  crying  and 
saying  he  couldn't  live  away  from  me !" 

And  she  told  all  the  story  to  Polly — even  showed  her 
Vincent's  letter. 

"Now!"  she  said.    "Give  me  my  carfare,  and  I'll  go." 

"I  have  nothing.    Perhaps  Mrs.  Russell " 

But  Mrs.  Russell  was  out.  Polly  was  in  misery.  There 
was  this  terrible  girl,  demanding  her  money,  implacably 
waiting  for  it,  this  girl  whom  her  husband  had  treated  so 
shockingly.  Her  only  wish  in  life  was  to  be  rid  of  her. 

"Take  my  ring,"  she  said.  "It's  worth  ten  times  what 
you  want." 

"I  can't  buy  a  ticket  with  it.  I  don't  believe  you  have  any 
money,  the  lot  of  you!" 

Paradise  was  lost,  her  hopes  destroyed,  her  pride  mortally 
wounded ;  so,  having  nothing  to  lose,  she  let  herself  go.  She 
threw  off  all  restraint;  she  was  as  coarse,  as  fierce,  as  she 
wished  to  be. 

Polly  was  wonderfully  patient  with  the  girl. 

"You  shall  be  paid,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  down  with  you 
to  Mr.  Geraldine.  If  he  hasn't  any  ready  money,  he'll  write 
you  a  cheque." 

He  still  sat  there  writing.  He  paid  no  attention  to  them 
as  they  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

"Vincent!"  said  Polly.  "Will  you  please  write  a  cheque 
for  Angelica  at  once?" 

Then  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  at  them  for  a  long 
time  in  contemptuous  silence. 

"I  told  her,"  he  said,  "just  what  I  shall  tell  you.  I  have 
no  money." 


162  ANGELICA 

"But,  Vincent,  a  cheque " 

He  smiled,  pulled  a  cheque-book  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
wrote.  Tearing  out  a  leaf,  he  handed  it  to  Angelica.  She 
stared  at  it. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  cried. 

Polly  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"Please  don't  joke,  Vincent,"  she  said.  "Please  give  her 
what  is  due  her." 

7or  he  had  drawn  a  cheque  for  ten  thousand  dollars. 

"My  dear  Polly,  any  cheque  I  wrote  would  be  equally 
ridiculous.  There's  nothing  in  the  bank." 

"Then  where  is  it,  Vincent?" 

"I've  told  you.    My  investments " 

"But  my  income  ?    Surely  that " 

He  began  to  show  irritability. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  it's  all  gone.  Now,  for  God's 
sake,  my  dear  soul,  go  away !  Can't  you  see  I'm  trying  to 
write?" 

"But  my  income " 

"Oh,  you  and  your  damned  income!"  he  shouted.  "You 
women  and  your  beastly  greed!  Haven't  you  any  soul? 
Can't  you  think  of  anything  but  money?" 

"No,  I  can't,  Vincent,  just  now.  It's  a  very  serious  mat 
ter,"  said  Polly,  gravely. 

He  jumped  up  with  an  oath. 

"It's  disposed  of  for  the  next  two  years,"  he  cried.  "You 
left  it  to  my  judgment.  I've  used  my  judgment.  And  now 
you  come  whining  and  sniveling  about  your  handful  of  pen 
nies.  By  God,  I'm  entitled  to  it !  The  whole  thing  doesn't 
amount  to  what  you  cost  me  in  a  month — your  clothes  and 
your " 

"Never  mind  that,  please.  Do  you  mean  that  we  can't  pay 
Angelica?" 

"Good  God!  Is  your  head  made  of  wood?  Or  are  you 
getting  senile?" 

Polly  went  on,  as  unheeding  of  his  gross  rudeness  as  a 


ANGELICA  163 

rock  is  of  the  spray  that  dashes  over  it.  Quiet  and  resolute, 
she  pursued  her  investigations.  Her  money  was  her  life, 
her  peace,  her  freedom,  her  dignity ;  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  earn  any  more,  and  that  there  was  no  other  man  to  give 
it  to  her.  She  must  have  it ! 

Angelica  observed  her  with  profound  admiration.  Even 
to  further  her  own  best  interests,  even,  she  fancied,  to  save 
her  own  life,  she  couldn't  have  remained  so  calm,  so  self- 
controlled. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  went  on,  "that  we  have  nothing?" 

"I  do  not!  We  have  all  sorts  of  things — paintings, 
books,  your  jewelry.  Simply  we  have  no  money.  Now  let 
me  alone!" 

"But  what  do  you  propose  'doing?"  she  asked.  "We  can't 
go  on,  like  this,  without  a  penny.  How  do  you  propose  to 
pay  Angelica?" 

He  raised  his  upper  lip  in  a  brutal  sort  of  sneer. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know,  do  you?  Of  course  not!  You're 
perfectly  innocent,  aren't  you?  You  never  suspected,  did 
you,  who  it  was  paid  for  the  clothes  on  your  back?  It'll  be 
such  a  shock  to  you,  dear  soul !  In  our  need  we  shall  have 
to  turn  to  Eddie !  He'll  pay  Angelica,  he'll  pay  me,  and  he'll 
pay  you.  God  bless  Eddie !" 

That  blow  told.  Polly  winced  under  it.  She  turned  away 
slowly  and  went  out  of  the  room.  Angelica  followed  her, 
and,  looking  back  from  the  doorway,  srie  saw  Vincent  writ 
ing  again. 


II 

Angelica  had  started  an  avalanche.  She  was  deeply  im 
pressed  and  interested.  She  had  no  desire  to  go  now;  she 
wished  to  see  the  tremendous  end. 

Events  moved  with  satisfactory  speed.  Polly  went  at 
once  to  Mrs.  Russell's  room,  to  find  her  just  arrived  at  home 


i64  ANGELICA 

from  a  Stricken  Belgium  card-party.  They  closed  the  door ; 
they  were  shut  in  there  a  long  time  together.  They  must, 
of  course,  have  summoned  by  telephone  the  two  unhappy 
and  disturbed  gentlemen  who  came  in  a  motor-car  later  in 
the  afternoon. 

When  these  came,  they  all  went  into  the  library,  where 
Vincent  still  sat.  There  was  a  dreadful  scene.  The  new 
comers  were  Polly's  lawyer  and  the  trustee  of  her  first  hus 
band's  estate,  and  they  at  once  attacked  Vincent.  The  trus 
tee  was  non-legal  and  devoid  of  wise  caution ;  he  shouted 
threats  at  Vincent,  and  Vincent  cursed  him  in  the  voice  of 
a  bull.  He  was  beside  himself  with  fury.  The  lawyer  tried 
to  frighten  them  both  into  silence,  but  he  was  himself  so 
appalled  and  outraged  by  their  ignorance  of  what  was  and 
what  wasn't  libelous  that  his  arguments  were  weak. 

Polly  was  distressed,  but  resolute. 

"No !"  she  implored  the  raging  trustee.  "No,  Frank, 
dorit,  please !  Only  find  out  just  what  has  happened  and  see 
what  you  can  save  for  me.  Don't  trouble  to  quarrel  with 
him." 

Vincent  turned  on  her. 

"Yes!"  he  screamed  in  a  high,  hysterical  voice.  "Yes! 
You'll  fight  to  defend  your  money,  at  least !  You  don't  care 
about  anything  else.  It  never  pierced  your  damned  self- 
satisfaction  when  I  wras  off  with  other  women — 

"Vincent !"  said  his  mother  in  a  low,  shocked  voice. 

"Very  well!  Very  well!"  he  cried.  "I  don't  mind  them 
knowing.  I  did  take  her  miserable  little  income  and  spend 
it  on  other  women.  For  God's  sake,  who  wouldn't?  Look 
at  her !  Do  you  think  she " 

"Just  tell  him,  please,"  said  Polly  to  the  lawyer,  "that  I 
intend  to  leave  him  immediately  and  to  obtain  a  divorce,  and 
that  he  must  give  up  any  authority  he  ever  got  from  me." 

"That  will  be  arranged,  Mrs.  Geraldine,"  said  the  lawyer. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Russell  began  to  cry. 


ANGELICA  165 

"Oh,  Polly!"  she  said.  "Don't  give  the  poor  boy  up! 
Give  him  another  chance!  Oh,  do,  do,  do!" 

She  stopped  suddenly.  Vincent,  too,  stopped  his  violence 
and  his  curses.  Eddie  had  come  in. 

Eddie's  peculiar  power  had  never  before  been  so  unmis 
takably  demonstrated.  He  had  never  before  had  such  an 
opportunity  for  showing  how  much  of  a  man  he  was.  He 
was  master  of  the  situation,  master  of  every  one.  He 
brushed  aside  the  clamour,  the  furious  arguments ;  he  wished 
only  for  information,  and  he  knew  how  to  get  it. 

He  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  the  lawyer,  with  now  and 
then  a  question  to  Polly.  He  listened  carefully,  and  one 
could  almost  read  in  his  face  the  functioning  of  his  just  and 
clear  mind. 

Angelica  watched  him  through  the  keyhole.  This  wasn't 
her  Eddie,  who  stammered  in  her  presence,  who  could  be 
roused  by  a  single  look  from  her  black  eyes.  Here  was  a 
man  quite  beyond  her  influence,  immeasurably  superior  to 
her,  a  man  undeniably  fine. 

She  listened  to  him  speaking.  He  addressed  Vincent  with 
a  quiet,  dispassionate  sort  of  contempt;  he  told  him  that  he 
would  return  to  Polly  what  Vincent  had  stolen  from  her. 

"And  I  will  apologize  to  you,  too,"  he  said  to  Angelica, 
when  he  came  out  of  the  library,  "for  all  this  that  you've  had 
to  go  through  here  in  my  house.  I  think  you're  quite  right 
to  leave.  If  you'll  go  up-stairs  now,  I'll  talk  the  matter  over 
with  these  gentlemen.  You  and  I  can  discuss  it  later." 


in 

So  it  was  over.  The  house  was  quiet  again,  and  they  were 
all  shut  in  their  several  rooms.  Angelica  went  to  Polly's 
door  and  knocked. 

"It's  Angelica,"  she  said.    "Anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 


i66  ANGELICA 

Polly's  voice  came,  after  a  long  interval,  faint  and 
mournful : 

"No,  thank  you!" 

So  then  where  should  she  turn  but,  naturally,  to  Eddie? 
She  was  very  unhappy.  She  felt  ashamed  of  herself  now, 
terribly  lonely,  banished,  and  disgraced.  Of  course  Polly 
would  tell  Eddie — perhaps  already  had  told  him — all  that 
Angelica  had  told  her,  all  about  that  disgraceful  affair  with 
Vincent,  and  she  would  lose,  or  perhaps  already  had  lost, 
Eddie's  regard.  Just  when  she  needed  it  so,  when  she  had 
been  so  cruelly  repudiated  by  Vincent ! 

"Well,  anyway,  I  want  to  see  him,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Anyway,  he  won't  fly  out  at  me,  even  if  he  thinks  I've 
been  awful !" 

She  couldn't  find  him  for  a  long  time.  She  wandered 
about  the  house  like  a  lost  soul;  and  then  at  last  she  came 
across  him  on  the  veranda,  sitting  there  smoking,  in  the  chilly 
October  evening. 

"Mr.  Eddie !"  she  said  softly,  from  the  doorway. 

"Oh!  Yes?"  he  answered  pleasantly.  "Is  it  you,  An 
gelica?  Do  you  want  anything?" 

"I  just  wanted  to  speak  to  you " 

"Shall  I  come  in?" 

"I'll  come  out,"  she  suggested,  glad  of  the  chance  to  talk 
in  the  dark,  and  groped  her  way  to  the  corner  where  she 
saw  the  light  of  his  cigar. 

"It's  a  dark  night,"  he  said. 

"It's — sad  out  here,"  said  Angelica.    "So — damp,  and  all." 

"There's  a  big  storm  coming.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you, 
Angelica.  I'm  very  glad  you  came.  I  wanted — I've  some 
money  that's  due  you.  You  see,  I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

"Going  where?" 

"To  a  training-camp — before  I  go  to  France,  you  know." 

"Oh,  dear !"  she  cried,  with  quite  genuine  dismay.  "Oh, 
Mr.  Eddie,  I  am  sorry !  I  hate  to  have  you  gone !" 

"I  don't  like  to  go,"  he  admitted,  simply.    "And  especially 


ANGELICA  167 

I  don't  like  to  leave  you  like  this.  I  wish  that  it  could  have 
been  different." 

She  waited  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  I  better  be  going  to-morrow,  too,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  so.  There's  nothing  more  for  you  here,  An 
gelica.  Polly's  going  away,  you  know,  and — 

"Mr.  Eddie !"  she  cried.  "Tell  me !  Tell  me,  honestly,  do 
you  think  I — it  was  my  fault?  If  you'd  only  please  tell  me 
everything  they  told  you — Mrs.  Geraldine,  and  all!  What 
did  she  say  about  me — and — that?" 

"Polly?"'  he  asked.  "She  didn't  say  anything  about  you 
at  all,  except  that  she  liked  you  very  much,  and  that  she 
thought  Vincent  had  behaved  very  badly  toward  you." 

"My  Gawd!"  said  Angelica  under  her  breath.  "She  never 
told  him!  He  don't  know  a  thing!" 

"I  don't  blame  you  at  all,"  he  said.  "Not  in  any  way. 
You  lost  your  temper — perhaps  you  lost  your  head  a  little 
— but  you  had  great  provocation.  You  see,  Angelica,  Vin 
cent  came  to  me  and  explained  the  whole  thing.  I  must  say 
he  was  very  candid — and  fine  about  it.  He  told  me  frankly 
that  he  had  tried  to — mislead  you,  and  that  you  refused  to 
listen  to  him;  and  that  that  was  the  reason  he  behaved  so 
badly  to  you.  Of  course,  he  lias  behaved  badly,  all  around, 
— shamefully;  but  still — he  has  good  points.  I  thought  it 
was  a — a  plucky  sort  of  thing  to  do,  you  know,  especially 
when  we  were  on  such  bad  terms.  He  said  he  couldn't  bear 
to  think  of  your  being  blamed  in  any  sort  of  way." 

Angelica  was  amazed  and  delighted  that  she  had  been 
made  into  a  persecuted  heroine.  She  was  filled  with  admira 
tion  for  Vincent's  nobility ;  and  yet  she  could  dimly  perceive 
that  there  was  something  behind  it,  that  he  gained  some 
thing  he  wanted  by  this  false  confession.  It  seemed  a  miracle 
that  Eddie  had  been  spared,  both  by  him  and  by  Polly,  those 
very  facts  which  Angelica  was  so  anxious  for  him  not  to 
know. 

"He  said  he  was  sorry  for  the  whole  thing,"  Eddie  went 


i68  ANGELICA 

on.  "He  begged  me  to  try  to  influence  Polly  to  give  him 
another  chance.  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  simply  said  I'd  tell 
her  exactly  what  he  had  said,  and  what  he'd  done.  I  did. 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  her ;  but  she's  finished  with  him.  She 
didn't  say  a  word  against  him,  but — she's  finished  with  him." 

"But  is  it  that — about  me?  Is  that  the  reason  she's  leav 
ing  him?"  Angelica  asked,  with  anxiety. 

"No !  As  far  as  that  goes,  there  are  plenty  of  things  far 
worse — in  that  line,  you  know.  No!  I  think  it's  chiefly 
about  the  money.  She  says  she  couldn't  trust  him  again. 
She  says  it's  impossible  to  live  with  him  under  such  condi 
tions.  I  suppose  it  is.  Anyway,  she's  absolutely  determined 
to  leave  him." 

Angelica  sat  in  silence,  more  utterly  wretched  than  ever. 
Had  Vincent  just  sacrificed  himself  for  her?  Did  he  really 
love  her?  And  for  his  love  was  he  to  be  utterly  cast  out?" 

"No!"  she  said  suddenly,  aloud. 

"No  what?"  asked  Eddie. 

"Nothing.  I  was  just  thinking.  There  comes  the  rain!" 
she  cried.  "Gosh,  what  a  storm !" 

They  both  got  up,  to  push  back  their  chairs  against  the 
wall  of  the  house,  but  even  there  it  reached  them — the  spray 
from  the  rain  falling  in  straight,  heavy  lines,  dashing  against 
the  earth  with  a  fierce  drumming  noise  that  filled  the  air  and 
confused  the  senses.  The  smell  of  the  soil,  the  dead  leaves, 
the  grass,  came  to  them  with  its  own  invigorating  freshness ; 
and  in  spite  of  the  chilly  sprinkle  in  their  faces  they  lingered; 
fascinated  by  the  noise,  the  wet  odours,  the  great  black, 
uproarious  void  before  them.  They  stood  close  together, 
their  shoulders  touching,  their  backs  against  the  wall. 

"Angelica!"  said  Eddie's  voice  in  her  ear,  curiously  flat 
and  faint  in  the  surrounding  din.  "Angelica,  can't  you? 
Just  think — if  I  could  only  know — while  I'm  away — that 
you — that  you  were  waiting  for  me !" 

"Eddie,"  she  replied,  "I  couldn't.  Not  now,  anyway. 
Perhaps — later.  /  don't  know." 


ANGELICA  169 

"You  mean — you  think  some  day — it's  not  impossible? 
You  could,  then?  I  mean — I'm  not  repulsive  to  you?" 

"Deary  boy!"  she  protested.     "Of  course  you're  not." 

"Do  you  think  you  could — kiss  me?"  he  asked.  "I'm  go 
ing  away  to-morrow." 

She  turned,  put  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  kissed  him 
on  the  cheek. 

"There !':  she  said.     "Now  you  see!" 

He  didn't  move ;  stood  there  like  a  statue. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  go  in,"  she  said.  "We're  getting 
wet ;  and  I've  got  to  pack  up  my  things." 

To  go  home !  She  began  for  the  first  time  to  imagine  her 
home-coming,  to  think  of  her  future.  This  was  all  over ;  she 
would  never  get  another  such  job,  never  again  be  in  a  house 
like  this,  never  again  have  a  chance  like  this ! 

She  began  to  think  of  the  kitchen,  of  the  factory,  of  their 
suppers  of  tea  and  bread  and  margarine,  of  her  mother,  list 
less  and  hopeless — all  of  it  hopeless — even  Vincent.  What 
could  he  ever  do  for  her,  even  if  he  had  the  inclination? 
Who  was  there  on  earth  who  cared  to  do  anything  for  her, 
who  could  give  her  in  any  way  the  things  she  craved  ?  Panic 
overwhelmed  her. 

"Eddie!"  she  cried.    "I— could!" 

He  was  suddenly  galvanized  into  life. 

"Could?"  he  cried.     "Could  what?" 

"If  you  want — I'll  marry  you!" 

His  arms  went  around  her,  pressing  her  tightly  against 
his  coat.  A  smell  of  damp  tweed  and  cigar-smoke  filled  her 
nostrils ;  she  couldn't  see  or  move  at  all,  her  head  was  so 
buried  in  his  clumsy  embrace. 

"Oh,  my  darling!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  Angelica,  to  think  that 
I  have  to  go  now!" 

"But  I'll  be  waiting  for  you,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

She  stood  on  the  front  steps  long  after  he  was  out  of  sight, 
lost  in  a  painful  reverie.  The  rain  was  still  falling  steadily 
and  violently,  without  wind,  from  a  pale  gray  sky.  She 
watched  it,  absently,  churning  the  gravel  walk,  splashing  up 
again  from  the  puddles.  What  a  desolate  and  tremendous 
world  that  morning! 

Eddie  was  really  gone.  She  had  said  good-by  to  that 
generous  and  loyal  friend,  had  pressed  his  hand  and  tried 
to  smile  brightly  after  him.  He  hadn't  wanted  her  to  go  to 
the  railway-station  with  him. 

"No,"  he  had  said.  "Let's  say  good-by  here,  in  the  place 
that's  going  to  be  our  home." 

He  was  in  a  bad  state.  He  did  all  he  knew  to  conceal  it, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  apparent  to  her  that  he  was  deeply 
troubled  by  the  thought  of  what  lay  before  him,  that  he  was 
most  reluctant  to  go,  unhappy,  alarmed,  and  a  little  puzzled. 
He  was  ashamed  of  all  this,  he  wished  to  be  a  man,  like 
Vincent,  and  he  naively  believed  that  a  true  man  was  practi 
cally  devoid  of  any  emotion,  except  love  and  anger. 

Nevertheless,  disturbed  as  he  was,  he  didn't  for  a  moment 
neglect  his  beloved  Angelica's  interests.  He  wished  to  know 
how  she  was  to  get  on. 

"I'll  find  another  job,"  she  said. 

He  didn't  object ;  he  really  considered  that  it  would  be  best 
for  her  to  remain  sturdily  independent,  under  no  obligation 
to  him. 

"I've  made  a  will,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "so  that  if  I  don't 
come  back,  you'll  be  all  right.  In  the  mean  time,  if  you  do 
need  anything,  here's  my  lawyer's  address.  I've  told  him  to 
give  you  anything  you  ask  for  without  question." 

170 


ANGELICA  171 

Mrs.  Russell,  too,  had  gone.  She  had  felt  so  upset  by 
Eddie's  departure  and  Polly's  cruel  behaviour  that  she  was 
obliged  to  take  a  ten-day  motor-trip  with  the  doctor  and 
Courtland.  She  hadn't  remembered  to  bid  Angelica  good-by, 

Polly,  however,  had  been  very,  very  kind.  She  had  given 
Angelica  several  little  presents,  which  wasn't  her  way,  and 
she  had  spoken  to  her  with  a  sincere  kindliness. 

"My  dear  girl,"  she  had  said,  "this  has  been  a  wretched 
thing  for  you.  I  only  hope  it  won't  really  harm  you.  You 
mustn't  let  it.  Try  to  forget  it.  Just  now,  perhaps,  there's 
a  sort  of  glamour — but  after  you've  been  gone  for  a  while, 
I  think  you'll  see  it  all  more  clearly" — meaning  Vincent  all 
the  time,  of  course.  "If  only  you  could  find  some  work  that 
you  could  put  your  heart  into,  Angelica — something  you  are 
suited  to!  What  do  you  think  you'd  like?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  going  to  marry  Eddie " 

"Yes,"  said  Polly,  who  didn't  think  that  would  ever  come 
to  pass.  "But  he  may  be  gone  for  a  long  time ;  and  mean 
while  you'd  like  to  show  him,  wouldn't  you,  what  you  can 
do?"  ' 

"I  guess  I'd  like  dressmaking  and  millinery,"  said 
Angelica. 

"Very  likely  I  can  find  some  sort  of  opening  for  you.  I 
know  quite  a  number  of  self-supporting  girls.  Keep  in 
touch  with  me,  be  sure !" 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  There  was  nothing  to  distract 
her,  and  Angelica  was  able  to  meditate  at  her  leisure.  She 
thought  first  of  herself  and  her  return  to  her  mother,  of 
that  "going  back"  which  was  so  difficult  to  this  ardent  spirit 
always  eager  to  go  forward. 

She  suffered  under  a  terrible  discontent  and  restlessness. 
She  was  ashamed  of  the  past,  disgusted  with  the  future.  She 
felt  that  life,  real  life,  was  ended;  the  adventure  finished,  the 
mysterious  charm  lost. 

Try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  keep  her  mind  from  stray 
ing  to  Vincent.  He  was  adventure  and  charm,  life  itself,  for 


172  ANGELICA 

her.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  going  to  forget  him. 
He  had  treated  her  very  badly,  and  she  was  done  with  him. 
She  was  going  to  marry  Eddie  and  be  done  with  Vincent 
forever. 

But  she  knew  that  she  could  not.  Wouldn't  she  see  for 
ever  in  her  dreams  that  big,  arrogant  man  with  his  hawk 
like  face  and  his  bright  hair  ?  He  had  hurt  her,  but  he  had 
made  her  happy,  too.  He  had  come  upon  her  with  violence. 
Everything  about  his  brief  love-making  had  been  startling 
and  disturbing.  She  had  often  hated  him,  but  she  had 
always  loved  him — always,  from  that  moment  when  she  had 
seen  him  standing  in  the  doorway  of  Mrs.  Russell's  room. 

Then  she  gave  her  attention  to  Eddie,  with  a  queer  sore 
ness  of  heart.  She  felt  that  she  was  taking  advantage  of 
Eddie ;  that  he  was  too  good  for  her.  She  was  so  sorry  for 
him,  so  full  of  affection  and  respect  for  him — and  so  dis 
inclined  to  think  about  him ! 

She  fancied  she  saw  coming  the  taxi  which  was  to  take 
her  to  the  station,  and  she  ran  up-stairs  to  fetch  her  bag. 
Her  familiar  room  was  neat  and  desolate,  with  the  green 
blinds  pulled  half-way  down,  the  bureau  and  dressing-table 
stripped  bare,  the  bed  covered  over  with  a  sheet.  All  trace 
of  her  was  obliterated.  It  saddened  her;  she  took  a  last 
glance  at  herself  in  the  darkened  mirror  and  went  out,  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  her. 

She  almost  ran  into  Annie,  who  had  been  on  the  point  of 
knocking  on  her  door. 

''Mr.  Vincent  says  he'd  like  to  see  you  in  the  music-room 
for  a  few  minutes,"  the  maid  said  curtly. 

"No!"  said  Angelica,  and  then,  almost  immediately: 
"Yes!" 

After  all,  she  ought  to  see  him,  after  what  he  had  done. 
She  ought  to  thank  him.  Even  if  she  were  going  to  marry 
Eddie,  there  was  no  harm  in  that.  In  fact,  Eddie  would 
doubtless  have  approved  of  it. 


ANGELICA  173 

"He  won't  eat  me,"  she  said.  "Let's  see  what  he's  got 
to  say !" 

She  tried  to  prepare  herself  for  anything,  whether  she 
found  him  pleading,  passionate,  brutal,  or  depressed.  She 
felt  herself  quite  strong  enough  to  withstand  any  of  his 
moods — stronger  than  he  was. 

She  entered  again  that  little  music-room  where  Mrs.  Rus 
sell  had  interviewed  her  so  long  ago ;  but  to-day  it  had  taken 
on  quite  a  new  character.  He  had  pulled  the  shades  up  to 
the  top  of  the  windows,  so  that  the  cold  light  of  the  rainy 
day  came  in  to  destroy  the  charm  and  romance  of  the  ar 
mour,  the  harp,  and  the  orange-shaded  lamp  that  had  so 
delighted  her. 

Vincent  sat  on  the  piano-stool,  writing  on  the  closed  piano. 
He  was  without  a  coat,  in  a  gray  flannel  shirt  and  old  blue 
trousers.  His  hair  was  all  on  end,  in  wildest  disorder,  and 
his  face,  when  he  turned  to  Angelica,  was  troubled  and 
ecstatic.  He  looked  boyish,  very  touching,  and  his  manner 
was  altogether  unstudied. 

"Angelica !"  he  said.  "Please  listen  to  this !  Just  tell  me 
— these  few  lines — do  you  get  a  picture  at  all?  I  mean — 
just  tell  me  exactly  how  it  makes  you  feel — not  what  you 
think  of  it,  you  know,  but  how  you  feel.  Sit  down,  please, 
and  keep  quiet.  Now,  you  know,  this  is  almost  the  end  of 
the  thing — the  chap's  losing  his  faith — before  he  has  the 
vision.  It's  free  verse,  of  course — an  impression: 

"Men  crushed  down,  like  worms  under  a  heavy  foot, 

Half  stamped  into  the  mud,  but  the  other  half 

Still  squirming.     Writhing  corpses 

With  writhing  wounds, 

From  which  the  blood  squirts  violently; 

And  over  it  all,  in  a  cloud  of  mist,  rose  and  gold, 

Rides  God. 

God !    God !    God,  the  father  of  all  these  mutilated  animals ! 

God  Almighty,  whose  will  it  is  to  kill  his  sons  in  these  hideous 

ways! 
He  sees  everything.    He  hears  everything.     He  hears  their  yells, 


174  ANGELICA 

Their  howls  for  pity  and  for  death.     He  could  stamp  the  worm 

Quite  out  of  existence ; 

Smear  it  into  the  ground  so  that  it  should  be  obliterated  and 

At  peace ; 

But  for  His  own  good  purposes,  He  lets  it  squirm!" 

Angelica  was  quite  stupefied ;  she  had  no  clue,  no  dimmest 
idea  what  to  say.  She  didn't  even  know  whether  this  weird 
stuff  was  meant  to  be  funny.  She  thought  it  was  and 
yet 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "it's  meant  to  be  horrible.  It  is 
horrible,  isn't  it?" 

"Sure!"  said  Angelica.     "It  is." 

"Now  wait !"  he  said  peremptorily,  and  swung  round  again 
on  the  stool,  to  continue  his  writing. 

"Wait !"  he  muttered  again.  "Don't  go !  I  want  you  to 
hear  this !" 

She  sat  perfectly  still  for  a  long  time.  Then,  suddenly, 
he  groaned,  looked  round  at  her  with  a  sort  of  glare,  and 
tore  up  his  paper  with  an  oath. 

"No!"  he  cried.  "No!  I  can't  get  it!  Lord,  it's  such 
torment!" 

He  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Angelica!"  he  said  in  a  muffled  voice.  "Please  come 
here!" 

"What  is  it,  Vincent?"  she  asked  gently. 

"Angelica!  What's  going  to  become  of  me?"  he  asked 
huskily,  his  face  still  hidden. 

The  question  startled  her. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.    "I  suppose  you " 

"But  I'm  all  alone!"  he  said  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment. 
"They've  all  left  me,  and  you're  going,  too!" 

She  didn't  dare  to  touch  him,  but  her  voice  was  a  caress. 

"Vincent,  I'm  sorry!" 

He  looked  up  and  seized  her  hand. 

"Oh,  my  love !"  he  said.    "Aren't  we  fools?    Even  to  think 


ANGELICA  175 

of  such  a  thing  as  parting!  You  and  I,  Angelica,  to  part! 
It  couldn't  be!" 

"It's  got  to  be,  Vincent,"  she  answered,  trying  to  with 
draw  her  hand. 

"No,  it's  not.    No,  Angelica,  you  shan't  leave  me !" 

"Vincent!"  she  said.  "Don't!  You've  made  enough 
trouble.  Don't  make  any  more." 

"It's  you  who  are  making  the  trouble.  You're  breaking 
my  heart,  and  your  own  too — yes,  yours!  You  can't  deny 
it!  Every  drop  of  blood  in  your  body  tells  you  the  same 
thing.  You  need  me  and  you  long  for  me  as  I  need  and  long 
for  you." 

"Please!"  she  said,  beginning  to  cry.  "You  know  I'm 
going  to  marry  Eddie." 

"There's  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  you  and  me.  All 
other  people,  all  other  things,  are  shadows — lies — folly! 
You  are  a  woman  and  I  am  a  man,  and  we  love  each  other. 
We  cannot  part!" 

"I  must!"  she  said  desperately.    "You  know  I  must!" 

"No !  No !  Only  love  me,  Angelica,  and  care  for  nothing 
else.  Oh,  you  could  not  be  so  base  and  cowardly  as  to  leave 
me!" 

"Oh,  Vincent!"  she  sobbed.  "You  talk  like  a  fool!  You 
know  I  can't  stay  here!" 

"Look  here !"  he  said.  "Eddie  gave  me  a  hundred  dollars. 
Come  away  with  me — now — this  instant!  Anywhere — it 
doesn't  matter.  Just  as  we  are,  friendless,  homeless,  penni 
less — just  you  and  I,  to  make  our  way  together  in  the  world." 

She  shook  her  head,  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  let  me  alone?"  she  cried,  forlornly, 

"My  girl,  how  could  I  ?  I  couldn't  lose  you,"  he  said,  sur 
prised.  "I  couldn't  let  you  go." 

"But  you  must!" 

"But  I  won't!" 

"If  you  do  really  love  me,  you  won't  make  me  so  mis 
erable " 


176  ANGELICA 

"Angelica,  I  don't  love  like  that.  I  don't  care  whether 
you're  unhappy  or  not.  I  want  you!  I  am  mad  for  you! 
Even  if  it  means  your  damnation  and  ruin,  on  earth  and  in 
hell!  I  don't  care  for  anything  but  you — not  for  God 
Himself!" 

"Don't  talk  like  that!" 

"It's  true.  I  know  well  what  I'm  doing.  For  you  I've 
lost  my  immortal  soul.  I  haven't  a  soul  now.  I  love  you  as 
Satan  loves.  I  want  to  drag  you  down  to  hell  with  me !" 

Angelica,  however,  was  by  no  means  so  concerned  with 
hell  as  she  was  with  this  world. 

"But  think  what  would  become  of  me!"  she  cried. 

"Who  cares?" 

This  viewpoint  startled  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  care." 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  answered.    "You  only  care  for  me." 

She  wished  to  argue,  to  defend  herself;  but  it  was  too  late. 
She  was  lost.  His  words  so  appealed  to  the  recklessness  in 
her  own  nature,  to  her  devil-may-care  heart,  that  she  could 
not  counter  them.  She  loved  this  man;  her  whole  heart 
urged  her  blindly  to  follow  him,  to  do  what  he  asked,  to 
hurry  gloriously  to  destruction. 

She  made  a  half-hearted  effort  to  get  away  from  him,  but 
he  only  held  her  closer.  He  looked  down  at  her  and  laughed. 

"No  use !"  he  said.     "You  don't  want  to  go!" 

Suddenly  she  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  clung  to 
him,  looking  up  into  his  bold  eyes. 

"All  right!"  she  cried.    '7  don't  care!" 


PART  TWO 

CHAPTER  ONE. 


Mrs.  Kennedy  was  very  tired  that  afternoon.  She  had 
just  finished  scrubbing  a  kitchen  for  a  tenant,  crawling  labor 
iously  across  the  greasy  soft-wood  boards  with  her  brush 
and  her  pail  and  her  cloth.  There  had  been  some  foreign 
sort  of  fish  stew  cooking  on  the  stove  all  the  time,  and  the 
smell  had  turned  her  sick.  She  had  got  splinters  into  her 
water-softened  hands,  and  her  back  ached  with  a  ferocious, 
burning  ache.  She  came  down  the  basement  stairs  carrying 
the  empty  pail,  slowly  —  far  more  slowly  than  she  used  to 
come. 

"There's  not  a  thing  in  for  my  supper,"  she  thought 
"Well,  I  shan't  bother  to  go  out  and  get  anything.  I'll  just 
lay  me  down  and  rest.  I'm  tired  —  tired  out!" 

The  front  door  was  unlatched.  She  pushed  it  open  with 
her  foot,  and  went  along  to  the  kitchen.  She  wanted  a  cup 
of  tea,  but  she  couldn't  make  the  effort  to  get  it  ready.  She 
couldn't  even  lie  down.  She  sat  on  the  step-ladder  chair, 
straightening  her  aching  back  and  supporting  it  with  one 
hand  while  her  eyes  roved  about  her  neat  and  dismal  little 
domain,  hoping  to  discover  what  she  very  well  knew  wasn't 
there  —  something  to  eat,  prepared  and  ready. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  dulled  and  blunted  by  solitude. 
Her  life's  incentive  was  gone;  she  had  no  reason  for  working 
and  living  other  than  an  animal  reason  —  to  feed  herself. 
Her  spirit  had  no  food,  and  it  was  perishing. 

177 


178  ANGELICA 

She  had  a  vague  distaste  for  death,  which  was  just  suf 
ficiently  stronger  than  her  apathy  to  preserve  her  existence. 
She  slept  in  her  underground  cave,  cooked  and  ate  what  was 
essential,  kept  it  and  herself  respectable  and  clean,  and  went 
dully  on  working,  working,  going  wherever  she  was  bidden, 
doing  whatever  she  was  told. 

She  had  decided  to  go  out  to  the  corner,  to  buy  two 
bananas  for  her  supper,  when  the  door  opened  and  Angelica 
came  in. 

She  was  just  the  same — jaunty,  swaggering.  It  might 
have  been  one  of  those  long-past  evenings  when  she  came 
back  from  work,  tired,  but  restless  and  hungry.  She  had  the 
same  shabby  suit  and  ungloved  hands. 

"Hello,  mommer !"  she  said. 

Amazing  to  see  the  change  in  that  worn  face ! 

"Angle!  For  goodness'  sake!  I  never  looked  for  you! 
Why  ever  didn't  you  write,  deary,  so's  I'd  have  something 
in  for  your  supper?" 

"It  don't  matter,  mommer.  I'll  go  out  and  get  some 
thing." 

"I'll  get  my  purse " 

"No — I  got  some  money.  Listen,  mommer,  I'm  going 
to  stay  home  with  you  a  while.  Mr.  Eddie's  gone  to  the 
war  and  Mrs.  Geraldine's  gone  away.  Now,  for  Gawd's 
sake,  don't  begin  to  ask  a  lot  of  questions !  I'm  dead  tired. 
I'll  go  out  and  get  something  for  us  to  eat,  and  we'll  go  to 
the  movies  after.  You  put  on  the  water  for  tea  now,  while 
I  run  to  the  corner." 

But  even  after  the  front  door  had  slammed,  it  was  some 
time  before  Mrs.  Kennedy  got  up  to  put  on  the  kettle. 

"What  ever  is  she  doing  home  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  like 
this  ?"  she  asked  herself.  "I  don't  see.  Oh,  I  do  hope  there's 
nothing  wrong!  She's  so  hasty!" 

Angelica  came  in  again  with  a  great  paper  bag. 

"I  got  a  regular  treat,"  she  said.  "Sardines,  rolls,  cheese, 
and  a  nice  big  can  of  cherries !" 


ANGELICA  179 

"You  mustn't  waste  your  money,  deary,"  said  her  mother 
mechanically. 

They  both  set  to  work  to  open  the  tins,  brew  the  tea,  and 
lay  out  the  supper. 

"It  does  taste  good,"  Mrs.  Kennedy  admitted.  "Some 
how,  when  I'm  alone,  I  haven't  got  the  heart  to  buy  things 
and  cook  them.  It's  nice  to  see  you  again,  Angie !" 

"I  dare  say  you'll  soon  be  sick  of  me,"  said  Angelica. 
"Now,  come  along,  mommer,  put  on  your  hat  and  coat !" 

They  went  out  together,  the  tall,  swaggering  daughter,  the 
small,  decorous  mother,  along  the  swarming  streets  to  their 
favourite  moving-picture  "palace."  It  was  exactly  the  sort 
of  picture  Mrs.  Kennedy  liked,  a  "society"  one,  and  in  addi 
tion  her  daughter  bought  her  a  box  of  caramels.  In  every 
way  a  treat,  a  notable  evening! 

And  yet,  all  the  time,  her  vague  anxiety  persisted.  She 
had  questions  which  she  felt  she  must  ask.  They  went  home, 
and  to  bed,  without  her  having  summoned  courage  to  put 
them.  Then,  at  last : 

"Angie !"  she  said  softly  in  the  dark.    "Angie !" 

Not  a  sound.  Angelica  must  have  fallen  asleep  as  soon 
as  her  head  touched  the  pillow. 


II 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  very  much  surprised  to  see  Angelica 
spring  out  of  bed  the  next  morning  at  six  o'clock,  for  she 
had  always  liked  to  lie  in  bed  till  the  last  possible  instant. 
Her  mother  was  still  more  surprised  to  hear  her  say : 

"I'll  get  the  breakfast,  mommer!" 

"You  needn't  to,  deary.     I  guess  you  want  a  little  rest." 

"Rest,  nothing!  I'm  going  out  to  hunt  for  a  job  this 
morning." 

"But  aren't  you  ever  going  back  there — to  Mrs.  Rus 
sell's?" 


i8o  ANGELICA 

"Not  much !    I'm  going  back  to  the  factory  again." 

"Oh,  Angie!    I'm  sorry!" 

"Why  ?  You  made  enough  row  about  my  going  to  Mrs. 
Russell's." 

"Only  because  I  didn't  think  you  could  get  the  place ;  but 
now  that  you  did,  I'd  hate  to  see  you  go  back.  I'd  like  to  see 
you  better  yourself." 

"Oh,  for  Gawd's  sake!  That  stuff  again!  No!  Let  me 
tell  you,  mommer,  I'm  through  with  all  that.  I'm  all  right 
the  way  I  am.  I'm  good  enough — as  good  as  any  of  them, 
anyway." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  went  out,  without  a  kiss,  without 
a  good-by,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  saw  no  more  of  her  till  six 
o'clock,  when  she  came  in,  pale  and  scowling. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  supper?"  she  said,  roughly. 
"Why  ain't  it  ready?" 

"I  just  got  in  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "I  had  a 
hard  day." 

"Well,  you're  not  the  only  one,"  said  Angelica.  "What 
you  got?" 

"I'll  have  to  run  to  the  corner." 

"Now,  see  here !"  said  her  child.  "I  won't  stand  this ! 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  this  way.  If  you  can't  have  my  sup 
per  ready  when  I  get  home,  I  won't  come  home — d'ye 
understand?" 

This  was  but  the  first  indication  of  a  change,  a  profound 
change,  in  Angelica.  Her  mother  saw  it  with  anguish.  She 
was  rougher,  coarser,  more  cruel.  She  was  brusque  with  her 
mother  in  a  way  quite  different  from  her  old,  careless  fash 
ion.  She  was  cold,  critical,  scornful. 

She  had  got  back  her  job  in  the  factory  where  she  had 
worked  before,  but  she  didn't  bring  her  money  home  now. 
Her  mother  was  obliged  to  ask  for  some  when  she  had 
nothing  left  to  buy  what  her  child  demanded;  and  then, 
fiercely  reluctant,  Angelica  would  throw  down  on  the  table 
a  crumpled  dollar  bill. 


ANGELICA  181 

Her  habits  were  altogether  changed.  She  spent  no  more 
evenings  with  her  mother  at  home  or  at  the  movies.  She 
went  about  with  other  factory  girls,  to  dance-halls  and  caba 
rets  of  the  cheapest  sort.  She  bought  herself  daring  blouses, 
thin  as  a  veil,  through  which  her  lean  brown  shoulders  shone ; 
she  wore  short  skirts,  and  had  gauzy  silk  stockings  on  her 
long  legs ;  she  painted  her  face  with  exaggeration. 

"Angie!"  her  mother  remonstrated.  "You  don't  look 
decent  T 

"I  don't  want  to,"  she  replied. 

Night  after  night  she  stopped  out  until  one  o'clock.  Then 
her  mother  would  be  awakened  by  voices  in  the  courtyard — a 
kiss,  very  likely,  a  scuffle,  a  slap.  That  was  Angelica  and 
her  escort,  saying  good  night. 

Then  she  would  come  in,  jaded,  irritable,  the  paint  very 
brilliant  on  her  pale  face,  and  begin  undressing — not  in  the 
dark,  as  she  had  done  formerly,  to  avoid  disturbing  her 
mother.  She  would  come  into  the  room  with  no  effort  to 
be  quiet,  light  the  gas,  and  dawdle  about,  while  the  poor 
anxious  woman  in  bed  lay  watching  her,  sometimes  asking 
questions,  but  timidly,  dreading  a  rebuff. 

"Bah!  I'm  so  sick  of  it!"  Angelica  told  her  one  night. 
"Those  cheap  dances — those  smart  Johnnies  mauling  you 
round  with  their  sweaty  hands — and  then  a  glass  of  beer 
and  a  whole  lot  of  their  cheap  talk.  Cheap,  all  of  it!  I'm 
sick  of — everything!" 

She  had  flung  herself  down  fully  dressed  on  her  cot,  her 
soiled  white  shoes  on  the  clean  spread." 

"Just  sick!"  she  repeated,  with  a  break  in  her  voice. 

Her  mother  was  moved. 

"Maybe  it's  because  you  got  used  to  better  sort  of  people 
out  where  you  were,"  she  said. 

Angelica  raised  herself  and  looked  at  her. 

"Better!  Well,  maybe  they  were.  I  don't  know.  Only — 
I  don't  know — I  did  get  to  like  having  things  nice,  and  hear- 


182  ANGELICA 

ing  nice  voices.  All  this  is  kind  of  a  sudden  change.  And 
the  bunch  I  go  out  with — Lord,  what  a  bunch !" 

"Then  why  do  you  go  out  so  much,  deary?  Why  don't 
you  stay  home?" 

"Oh,  for  Gawd's  sake,  mommer !  After  working  all  day, 
a  girl  my  age  can't  sit  home  alone  all  evening." 

Alone !    The  poor  woman  winced. 

"You  could  read  magazines,  or  get  books  out  of  the 
library." 

"I  don't  want  to  read.  There's  nothing  in  books.  I  want 
to  live.  I  want  to  find  out  if  there's  anything — anywhere." 

"What  do  you  mean,  deary?  If  there's  anything  any 
where?" 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter!     I'm  going  to  bed.     Good  night!" 

They  went  on  in  this  way  for  weeks.  What  misery  for 
the  mother!  She  was  nothing  to  her  child;  she  could  not 
even  serve  her.  Angelica  had  become  completely  independ 
ent.  She  didn't  want  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Kennedy,  to  go  out 
with  her,  to  stay  at  home  with  her. 

Moreover,  she  had  grown  indifferent  to  the  little  niceties 
about  which  she  had  once  been  so  fastidious.  Sometimes 
she  would  get  in  earlier  than  her  mother.  Then,  without 
waiting,  she  would  get  some  sort  of  meal  for  herself,  eaten 
off  the  tub  tops,  from  the  saucepan  in  which  it  was  cooked. 
She  would  spend  a  long  time  dressing  herself  in  her  vivid 
finery,  leaving  the  dirty  pots  for  her  mother  to  wash.  Then 
again  she  wouldn't  appear  until  late,  long  after  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy  had  disposed  of  her  meal. 

"We  met  some  of  the  fellers,"  she  would  say;  "and  we 
hung  around  a  while  and  ate  a  lot  of  candy.  I  don't  want 
any  dinner." 

One  evening  her  mother  weakly  reproached  her  for  her 
lateness. 

"There  I  had  a  nice  bit  of  chopped  meat  fried  and  ready 
for  you,"  she  said.  "You  ought  to  let  me  know  when  you're 


ANGELICA  183 

not  coming  in.  It's  a  trouble  to  me  and  a  waste  of  money 
to  buy  things  and  you  not  to  touch  them." 

"Forget  it!"  said  her  child.  "I'm  never  in  any  hurry  to 
get  home,  I  can  tell  you.  To  this  hole !  Why  should  I  ?" 

"To  see  me!"  cried  her  mother  in  desperation. 

"Been  seeing  you  every  day  for  nineteen  years.  No, 
mommer,  you  can't  keep  me  hanging  round  you  any  more. 
I  got  to  be  free." 

"That  don't  mean  you're  not  to  be  kind  and  loving  to •" 

"Well,  I'm  not  kind  and  loving.  Gawd  didn't  make  me 
that  way." 

Her  mother  grew  more  and  more  certain  that  Angelica 
had  met  with  some  disaster  in  her  past  situation.  She 
thought  over  it  at  night  when  she  lay  in  bed,  in  the  day  while 
she  worked — thought  of  it  with  anguish  arid  terror.  Her 
peasant  soul  forgot  its  acquired  American  sophistication,  and 
craved  that  age-old  solace  nowhere  to  be  found  in  her  pres 
ent  mode  of  life — a  priest,  a  pastor,  some  one  in  authority 
to  reassure  her. 

She  hadn't  even  neighbours  to  gossip  with,  as  people  had 
in  the  "old  country."  There  was  no  one  who  had  seen  her 
child  grow  up,  who  knew  all  about  her,  and  could  and  would 
discuss  her  with  kindly  penetration.  A  stranger  in  a  strange 
land,  but — how  wretchedly! — a  stranger  to  whom  no  coun 
try  was  home.  Certainly  America  was  not  her  heart's  land ; 
certainly  Scotland,  the  home  of  her  parents,  would  have 
seemed  wholly  alien ;  while  her  husband's  birthplace,  to  her, 
was  little  more  than  a  fantastic  dream-land. 

Unto  the  third  generation  does  this  strangeness  persist. 
Angelica  herself  had  that  peculiar  lack  of  ease,  that  exotic 
quality ;  she  was  an  outsider.  Her  factory  friends,  too — they 
were  of  every  race,  and  they  had  all  become  alike.  Bo 
hemian,  Irish,  Russian,  Italian — they  had  all  the  same  air; 
but  it  was  a  foreign  air.  Their  adopted  country  had  unde 
niably  changed  them  into  something  different,  but  it  had  not 
made  them  American.  It  had  made  them  only  strangers. 


184  ANGELICA 

in 

One  morning  Angelica  didn't  get  up.  Her  mother,  in 
great  anxiety,  came  over  to  her,  to  make  enquiries,  but  An 
gelica  drove  her  away  with  fierceness,  swearing  at  her,  abus 
ing  her. 

"Let  me  alone !"  she  cried.  "Shut  your  mouth  and  mind 
your  own  business!" 

"Oh,  Angie,  Angie!"  said  the  poor  soul.  "If  you'd  only 
talk  to  me !  If  you  only  had  the  sense  to  know  how  I  could 
help  you!" 

"Shut  up!"  screamed  Angelica,  hysterically.  "And  get 
out !  Don't  speak  to  me  again !" 

Mrs.  Kennedy  took  up  her  pail  and  went  out;  but  half 
way  up  the  stairs  she  collapsed.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
steps  and  tried  to  pray;  but  she  didn't  know  quite  what  to 
ask  of  God. 

Because  she  knew;  she  couldn't  doubt  any  longer.  She 
knew  what  was  wrong  with  Angelica! 

She  didn't  really  want  to  pray.  She  wanted  God  to  do 
the  talking.  She  wanted  to  listen  to  Him,  not  to  talk  to  Him  ; 
to  discuss  it,  to  ask  questions,  to  have  an  explanation,  to 
hear  the  voice  of  authority. 

What  was  the  use  of  sitting  there  telling  Him  what  He 
surely  knew  ?  Or  to  beg  for  mercy  or  pity,  when  what  she 
wanted  was  advice?  Not  that  vague  sort  of  "guidance" 
which  one  prayed  for,  and  which  really  meant  puzzling  things 
out  alone  as  best  one  could.  There  was  one  thing, 
though 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  prayed.  "Soften  Thou  her  heart  and 
let  her  turn  to  me!" 

She  remembered  afterward  how  miraculously  this  prayer 
was  answered. 

She  was  scrubbing  the  vestibule — a  task  of  peculiar  hope 
lessness,  because  people  always  came  in  to  walk  over  it  all 


ANGELICA  185 

the  time  she  was  trying  to  clean  it.  She  heard  a  voice  say 
"Mommer!"  and,  looking  up,  saw  her  child,  huddled  in  an 
old  wrapper,  standing  before  her.  Angelica  was  struggling 
with  a  deadly  nausea.  She  was  frightened  and  desperate, 
her  face  a  sickly  white,  her  hair  in  dank  disorder. 

"Mommer!"  she  said  again.  "Come  down-stairs!  I  feel 
awful  sick!" 

Her  mother  got  up,  leaving  pail  and  brush  where  they 
were,  and  put  an  arm  around  this  beloved  child,  so  much 
taller  and  stronger  than  she,  and  yet,  in  her  youth  and  her 
ignorance,  so  much  weaker.  She  helped  her  down-stairs  and 
into  bed  again. 

"Lie  still !"  she  said.  "That's  the  best  you  can  do,  my 
deary.  It'll  pass  away." 

"Can't  you  get  me  some  sort  of  medicine,  mommer  ?" 

"Nothing  that  would  help  you,  my  deary,"  Mrs.  Kennedy 
told  her.  "You've  just  got  to  bear  it,  Angelica." 

The  girl  looked  up  with  somber  eyes. 

"Mommer,"  she  said,  "listen!  What  do  you  guess  is  the 
matter  with  me?" 

"Angelica,  my  deary,  I  know!" 

"Then,  mommer,  I'm  going  to  kill  myself!" 

Her  mother  said  nothing  at  all,  but  to  herself  she  thought : 

"Why  not  ?  It  would  be  the  best  and  the  quickest  for  both 
of  us.  If  you  don't — oh,  what's  ahead  of  us,  and  how  ever 
can  we  go  through  with  it  ?" 

Angelica  searched  her  mother's  face,  but  in  vain;  it  was 
impassive. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  she  cried. 

"There's  always  something  that  can  be  done,"  said  her 
mother.  "We'll  try  and  think,  deary." 

"Mommer!" 

"Yes,  my  deary?" 

"Do  you  feel — different  to  me?" 

"No,  Angelica,  nor  ever  shall!" 

But  she  did.     Strong  in  the  simple  soul  was  the  old  wor- 


186  ANGELICA 

ship  of  the  virgin.  Angelica  had  been  before  a  mystic  and 
holy  thing.  She  was  now  no  more  than  a  woman,  like  her 
self ;  and  a  woman  is  no  fit  object  for  worship. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  wasn't  shocked,  in  a  moral  sense.  She 
didn't  dwell  much  upon  that  side  of  the  case.  Her  great 
concern  was  with  practical  problems — above  all,  how  they 
were  to  get  the  money  which  she  knew  would  be  needed. 
She  always  spoke  of  girls  in  similar  situations  as  "unfortu 
nate,"  and  that  is  just  the  way  she  saw  it. 

She  sat  at  the  bedside,  trying  her  best  to  make  some  sort 
of  plan. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


But  Angelica  herself !  That  she  should  be  undergoing  this 
horror,  this  nightmare,  this  incredible  thing  she  had  heard 
of  and  read  of ! 

"Oh,  mommer!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  mommer!  It's  the 
worst  thing  I  ever  heard  of !  I'm  the  worst " 

"Hush,  deary!  Don't  talk  so  wild.  It's  bad,  I  must 
admit,  but  you're  young,  and  I  dare  say  you  loved  the  man 
and  trusted  in  him,  to  your  sorrow." 

Angelica  turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  That  was  the  very 
worst  of  it.  She  hadn't  really  trusted  Vincent  at  all.  She 
had  simply  followed  an  instinct  of  which  she  understood 
nothing.  She  had  been  dazzled  by  his  words,  been  deluded 
through  compassion,  through  recklessness,  through  desire, 
into  throwing  herself  away  upon  a  man  who  cared  nothing 
for  her,  who  had  no  affection,  no  human  kindness.  He 
didn't  care  what  happened  to  her.  If  she  had  been  willing 
to  stay  with  him  a  little  longer,  he  would  have  been  willing 
to  "love"  her  a  little  longer;  but  when  she  had  decided  to 
leave  him,  he  offered  no  resistance.  He  would  quite  easily 
forget  her,  she  knew. 

Useless  to  tell  herself  that  the  conventional  code  of 
morality  meant  nothing  to  her.  It  did!  She  had  fancied 
herself  superior  to  all  that,  but  that  was  because  she  hadn't 
known  or  imagined  what  such  a  surrender  meant.  Just  to 
run  into  his  arms,  without  ceremony,  without  any  promise, 
any  covenant,  without  regard  for  any  other  human  creature, 
reckless  of  her  own  future,  flinging  away  her  pride,  her  free 
dom,  her  decency.  That  wasn't  beautiful.  That  wasn't  love. 
What  in  God's  name  was  it? 

187 


i88  ANGELICA 

She  had  not  even  happy  memories.  It  was  shame  to  re 
member  her  past  joy.  She  loathed  herself  for  her  past 
ecstasy.  A  perfect  terror  of  her  own  infamy  swept  over  her. 

"No!"  she  cried.  "I  can't  stand  it!  Mommer,  it's  too 
awful !  You  don't  know  how  awful !  You  don't  know  what 
I  did!" 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me,  deary?" 

"I  can't!  I  don't  know  how.  I'll  try."  She  sat  up  in 
bed  and  caught  her  mother's  hand.  "The  worst  is  the  way 
I  treated  Eddie.  He  was  so  good  to  me !  He  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  and  I  said  I  would;  and  then,  the  very  day  he 
left,  I  went  away — with  his  own  brother !" 

"Oh,  Angie !"  cried  her  mother,  in  horror. 

"Oh,  mommer,  if  you  knew  Eddie,  you'd  see  what  an 
awful  thing  I've  done !  He's  such  a  good  man,  and  so — kind 
of  noble,  and  all  that !  I  don't  know  how  he'll  ever  stand  it. 
He  trusted  me." 

"But  what  ever  made  you  do  such  a  thing,  Angelica  ?  Are 
you  so  terrible  fond  of  this  other  one?" 

"No — not  now.  No — that's  what  I  can't  explain.  I  don't 
know  why  I  did.  I — I  just  seemed  to  forget  everything. 
I — just  thought — I  loved  him." 

"And  you  don't?  You  love  the  other  one — the  good  one?" 

Angelica  began  to  weep. 

"No,"  she  said.  "That's  the  worst.  I  don't  love  either 
of  'em.  What's  the  matter  with  me,  do  you  suppose?  I 
don't  seem  to  have  any  heart!"  She  struggled  painfully  to 
get  her  thought  into  words.  "I  hate  Vincent,  and  I  like 
Eddie,  a  lot ;  but  love — I've  never  felt  it  at  all,  mommer,  for 
any  one,"  she  sobbed.  "Not  that  love  they  have  in  books. 
It  makes  me  feel  dreadful.  If  I  loved  Vincent,  I  wouldn't 
feel  so  mean  and  low  and  bad.  It  would  be — sort  of  splen 
did;  but  this!  Mommer!" 

"Well,  deary?" 

"Maybe  there's  no  such  a  thing." 

"No  such  a  thing  as  what?" 


ANGELICA  189 

"As  love." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  had  never  experienced  it;  had  never  seen 
or  heard  of  any  authentic  case  of  this  beautiful  tenderness, 
this  undying  devotion,  this  heavenly  thing.  Yet  she  firmly 
believed  that  it  existed — this  love  which  was  not  desire,  not 
infatuation,  not  madness,  not  sentimentality,  not  friendship 
— this  ecstasy  which  endured  forever.  Not  experience,  not 
common  sense,  nothing  at  all  could  have  convinced  her,  for 
it  was  instinct  that  made  her  believe — nature's  most  cruel 
and  most  necessary  deception.  For  life  to  continue,  it  is 
necessary  that  women  shall  cling  to  two  lies — that  men  are 
capable  of  truly  loving  them,  and  that  their  children  will 
love  them  in  their  old  age. 

"Deary,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  "I  think  you'd  better  write 
to  him  and  tell  him,  and  see  what  he  will  do  for  you.  Per 
haps  he'll  marry  you." 

"He  is  married,"  said  Angelica  indifferently.  "Yes,  mom- 
mer,  I  will  write  to  him ;  but  it's  an  even  chance  if  he'll  come 
or  not.  He's  queer.  You  can't  ever  tell,  with  him.  I'll  try, 
anyway,  and  see  if  I  can't  get  some  money  out  of  him." 

To  her  mother  the  tragedy  was  somewhat  lessened  by  the 
fact  that  Angelica  didn't  love  Vincent.  She  fancied  that 
the  girl  \vould  consequently  get  over  it  better,  not  suffer  so 
cruelly;  but  for  Angelica  there  lay  the  worst  of  it,  the  most 
intolerable  part  to  bear.  It  was  that  that  made  her  frantic 
with  shame  and  remorse.  She  looked  in  vain ;  she  could  find 
no  trace  of  magnificence  in  her  downfall.  It  wasn't  a  splen 
did  sin,  done  for  reckless  love.  It  was  a  damnable  folly, 
committed  through  reckless  ignorance. 


II 

She  wrote  to  Vincent  with  a  sort  of  naive  art.  She  wished 
to  hide  the  least  sign  of  anxiety  or  reproach;  she  wished 
him  merely  to  think  that  she  missed  him. 


I9o  ANGELICA 

Why  don't  you  come?  I  have  been  looking  for  you  for  ever 
so  long.  Come  in  some  evening  soon.  ANGELICA. 

The  evening  after  the  letter  was  mailed,  she  got  up  and 
dressed  herself,  trembling  with  weakness,  hardly  able  to 
stand,  but  quite  self-possessed.  She  didn't  feel  the  slightest 
emotion  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Vincent  again — nothing 
but  a  dogged  resolution  to  make  him  give  her  money. 

She  attempted  no  attitude,  made  no  plan  of  what  she 
would  say  to  him,  because  she  knew  now  how  helpless  she 
was  in  his  hands.  He  would  direct  the  interview ;  he  would 
give  the  key-note ;  it  would  all  depend  upon  his  mood.  She 
couldn't  influence  him.  She  didn't  even  take  pains  with  her 
appearance,  for  she  knew  that  it  didn't  lie  with  her  to  move 
him.  It  depended  upon  the  condition  of  his  own  mysterious 
soul. 

She  had  hardly  expected  him  so  soon.  He  came  that 
same  evening,  but,  from  the  very  sound  of  his  footsteps  as  he 
followed  her  along  the  hall  to  the  tiny  parlour,  she  could  feel 
that  he  was  sullen  and  reluctant,  and  her  heart  sank. 

"Oh,  if  only  I  didn't  have  to  bother  with  him!"  she 
thought.  "If  only  I  didn't  have  to  see  him  ever  again !  And 
I've  got  to  be  nice  to  him  and  ask  him  for  money!" 

They  entered  the  parlour,  and  sat  down  in  silence. 

"Angelica!"  he  said  abruptly,  with  a  frown.  "Why  'did 
you  leave  me  ?" 

"I  wanted  to " 

"I  was  amazed.  I  was  shocked.  You  behaved "  He 

hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  went  on  severely:  "You  be 
haved  like  a  light  woman.  I  thought  you  were  faithful  and 
constant  and  sincere ;  and  then,  after  one  week " 

"But  what  kind  of  a  week  was  it?"  cried  Angelica. 

"I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  I  'did  the  best  I  could  for  you." 

"You  know  what  I  mean !  In  that  awful  little  road-house, 
with  you  shutting  yourself  up  in  the  bedroom  all  the  time 
and  leaving  me  there  alone  for  all  those  men  to  laugh  at.!" 


ANGELICA  191 

"I  had  to  write." 

"You  hadn't  any  business  to  write.  You  might  have 
thought  a  little  bit  how  I'd  feel.  If  you  couldn't  pay  any 
attention  to  me,  you  shouldn't " 

"Did  you  bring  me  here  to  reproach  me?"  he  demanded. 
"Because  if  you  did,  I've  had  enough." 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  to  scold  you,"  she  answered,  hurriedly, 
recalled  to  the  necessity  for  placating  him.  "No — I  just 
wanted  to  see  you." 

Her  face,  which  had  become  so  pinched,  so  colourless,  was 
covered  with  a  vivid  flush.  The  conciliatory  words  almost 
stuck  in  her  throat;  but  apparently  Vincent  didn't  observe 
her  emotion. 

"I'm  not  disposed  to  endure  much  more  from  you — upon 
my  word,  I'm  not!"  he  went  on.  "The  way  you  went  off, 
simply  leaving  me  a  note  to  say  that  you  thought  you'd  go 
home — making  a  fool  of  me !  I  was  naive  enough  to  imagine 
we  were  to  spend  our  lives  together.  I  thought  we'd  stay 
for  a  month  or  so  in  that  beautiful  little  mountain  inn,  fish 
ing,  tramping,  reading,  talking — 

"You  hardly  spoke  to  me  all  day  long.  I  had  to  sit  down 
stairs  in  the  dining-room  with  those  fishermen." 

"How  was  I  to  know  that  you  had  no  resources  ?  Besides, 
it  was  rainy,  and  we  couldn't  have  gone  out,  anyway;  but 
the  very  day  you  left  the  weather  cleared.  I  was  really  dis 
gusted  with  you,  Angelica.  You  behaved  abominably !" 

"Well,  Vincent,"  she  said,  "you'll  have  to  excuse  that, 
and  be  a  good  friend  to  me,  because  I  need  some  money." 

He  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"You're  shameless!"  he  said.     "I'm  shocked!" 

"No — listen!  There's  going  to  be  a  baby!"  she  cried,  in 
desperation. 

He  was  a  little  taken  aback  for  a  moment.  He  gave  a 
hasty  glance  at  her  poor  desperate  young  face,  and  then 
looked  away. 

"There !"  he  said,  taking  a  leather  wallet  out  of  his  pocket 


192  ANGELICA 

and  throwing  it  on  the  table.  "Take  itf  It's  all  I've  got. 
My  God,  you  can't  get  the  better  of  a  woman !  They  have 
it  all  their  own  way  in  this  world.  They  make  us  pay,  and 
pay  dear,  for  their  follies!" 

Angelica  stared  at  him,  astounded. 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  the  guilty  one,"  he  went  on.  "I'm  the 
one  who's  held  responsible — why,  the  good  Lord  only  knows. 
I'm  the  one  to  pay !" 

"As  for  me,"  said  Angelica,  "it's  just  a  picnic,  isn't  it?" 

"You're  fulfilling  your  natural  destiny — at  my  expense." 

"Oh !"  she  cried.  "I  wish  to  God  I  could  throw  the  money 
back  in  your  face,  Vincent !" 

"But  you  won't.  And  now  that  you've  got  all  that  you 
can  out  of  me,  I  suppose  I  can  go?" 

But  Angelica  was  weak ;  she  couldn't  endure  it. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you're  not  even  sorry?"  she  cried. 
"Can't  you  think  what  this  means  to  me — what's  going  to 
become  of  me?  Oh,  Vincent,  just  think  what's  before  me!" 

"Just  what  always  was  before  you.  You're  bad,  my  girl, 
through  and  through.  You  couldn't  have  ended  any  other 
way.  No  decency,  no  self-restraint.  I  don't  suppose  I  was 
the  first  man " 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried.  "Don't!  You  can't  realize — oh, 
Vincent!" 

"And  as  for  this,  it  isn't  the  first  time  such  a  thing  has 
happened  in  the  world.  Even  a  young  girl  brought  up  in 
sheltered  luxury,  like  you,  must  have  heard  of  such  things. 
In  fact,  my  dear,  you  must  have  known  quite  as  well  as  I 
what  the  consequences  of  our  adventure  might  be.  If  you 
say  you  didn't,  you're  lying." 

She  put  out  one  hand  in  a  sort  of  mute  and  feeble  protest. 

"But  I  'didn't  think — you'd  change "  Her  voice  fal 
tered;  she  found  it  almost  impossible  to  go  on.  "I  thought 
— that  you — felt  like  I  did." 

"So  I  did,"  he  answered.  "So  I  do — just  the  same  as 
you.  Our  impulses,  our  reasons  for  going  off  together,  were 


ANGELICA  193 

exactly  the  same,  only  I'm  honest  about  it  and  you're  not. 
You  pretend  to  be  heart-broken  because  I  don't  care  for  you 
any  longer,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  don't  care  a  bit 
more  for  me.  You're  an  utter  hypocrite!" 

She  was  confused  and  crushed  by  his  words.  He  was 
taking  away  from  her  her  very  last  support — her  conviction 
that  she  had  been  misled,  wronged,  sinned  against.  Some 
how  he  was  putting  her  in  the  wrong.  She  couldn't  deny 
that  she  had  gone  away  with  him  of  her  own  free  will ;  and 
yet  she  knew  that  it  hadn't  been  her  own  free  will.  She 
didn't  deny  her  own  guilt,  but  she  knew  that  his  was  far 
greater. 

"I'm  not  a  hypocrite,"  she  said. 

"Then  you're  a  fool.  No — we've  done  with  each  other, 
Angelica.  It's  over  for  both  of  us." 

"But  it  isn't  over  for  me!"  she  cried.  Her  heart  was 
flaming  with  resentment  against  the  hellish  injustice  of  it — 
that  she  should  have  all  the  suffering,  all  the  punishment. 
"Just  think  of  it!"  she  cried.  "Can't  you  realize,  Vincent, 
how  dreadful  it  is  for  me?" 

"No,  I  can't  realize.  I'm  not  a  woman,  and  I  don't  pre 
tend  to  understand  them  and  their  fine  feelings.  I  can't 
understand  or  sympathize  with  this  cowardly  whining  over 
physical  effects  which  are  known  to  every  one.  Did  you 
want  anything  else  from  me,  except  money,  Angelica?" 

"Yes,  I  do!"  she  answered.  "I  do  want  something  else, 
and  I'll  get  it,  too.  I  want  to  make  you  suffer,  and  I  will, 
too!" 

"Oh,  I  see — the  wronged  woman  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms !  Well,  Angelica,  go  ahead !  Do  your  worst.  I  don't 
think  you  can  hurt  me  very  much." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  gay,  mocking  smile,  he  put 
on  his  hat,  and  was  gone. 

Angelica  went  back  to  her  mother  with  the  wallet. 

"Well!"  she  began.  "Here's "  But  she  broke  down 

and  began  to  cry  wildly. 


194  ANGELICA 

"Oh,  mommer !  Mommer !  I  can't  bear  this !  I  can't  be 
treated  like  this !  Oh,  mommer,  not  me!  Not  me!  It  can't 
be  true !" 

Her  mother  was  glad  when  she  wept.  She  stroked  Angel 
ica's  head  in  silence,  pleased  to  see  her  softened,  even  hum 
bled,  happy  to  see  that  ferocious  hardness  gone;  not  sus 
pecting  that  that  ferocity  and  that  hardness  were  the  very 
best  of  Angelica,  the  very  spirit  of  her.  When  she  wept  like 
this,  she  was  submerged,  perishing,  going  under.  With  a 
frightful  effort  she  saved  herself  and  rose  above  these  bitter 
waters. 

"He'll  pay,  all  right!"  she  said,  looking  up  with  an  odd, 
horrible  grin.  "You  watch!" 

"Don't  talk  so,  my  deary!" 

"Here — take  it !  Let's  see  how  much  we've  got  to  go  on 
with,"  she  interrupted,  pushing  the  wallet  across  the  table. 
"He's  always  saying  he  hasn't  got  a  cent,  but  I  notice  he 
always  finds  plenty  for  anything  he  wants.  God  knows 
where  he  gets  it,  but  he  does." 

Her  mother  counted  what  was  in  the  purse,  and  turned  to 
Angelica  with  a  look  of  amazement. 

"Why,  Angie!     There's  only  four  dollars  here!" 

Angelica  laughed. 

"It's  all  we'll  get,  anyway,  mommer,"  she  said.  "It'll  have 
to  do." 


CHAPTER  THREE 


Behold  Mrs.  Kennedy  answering  an  advertisement  for  a 
janitress,  far  over  on  the  lower  West  Side,  in  the  Chelsea 
district. 

"I  have  the  best  of  references,"  she  told  Mr.  Steinberg, 
the  landlord.  "I've  been  where  I  am  now  for  twelve  years, 
and  no  complaints." 

"Den  vy  do  you  leaf?" 

"I  don't  like  living  'way  up  there,"  she  answered  calmly. 
"I've  got  more  friends  down  around  here.  And  my  mar 
ried  daughter's  coming  to  live  with  me,  and  she'd  rather  be 
down  here.  She's  real  lonely,  now  her  husband's  gone  to 
the  war." 

This  was  her  ruse  to  preserve  that  respectability  which  no 
one  valued  or  even  observed. 

She  got  the  place,  because  of  her  decency  and  her  refer 
ences.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said  against  her  in  any 
quarter.  What  is  more,  Mr.  Steinberg  felt  from  the  look 
of  her  that  she  was  a  hard  worker.  Like  her  other  place,  it 
was  a  "cold  water"  flat ;  there  was  a  man  to  look  after  the 
furnace,  but  everything  else  was  to  be  done  by  her,  for  her 
rent  and  an  incredibly  small  stipend.  She  agreed.  Her  sole 
asset  was  her  readiness  to  undertake  hard  and  unremitting 
labour.  There  was  not  a  thing  which  she  could  do  better 
than  the  average  woman,  so  that  her  boast,  her  credit,  must 
be  that  she  did  more. 

"My  married  daughter's  thinking  of  taking  in  sewing,'  • 
ghe  said.  "Maybe  you  could  put  a  little  work  in  her  way." 

"Ve'll  see,"  said  Mr.  Steinberg,  "later  on,  maybe," 


196  ANGELICA 

Now  that  she  had  secured  a  refuge,  where  Angelica  might 
assume  respectability  among  complete  strangers,  the  poor 
woman's  next  preoccupation  was  to  find  some  way  of  having 
her  pitiful  furniture  moved.  She  went  about  for  days,  try 
ing  to  drive  bargains  with  any  one  who  possessed  a  cart ;  but 
war-time  prices  and  conditions  prevailed,  and  no  one  cared 
to  accept  so  unprofitable  a  task. 

In  the  end  she  found  an  Italian  who  sold  ice,  coal,  and 
wood  in  a  near-by  cellar,  and  who  agreed  to  do  what  she 
wished.  She  paid  him  at  least  six  visits,  trying  to  persuade 
him  to  take  less  money,  or  to  promise  great  care  with  her 
scanty  belongings,  or  to  reassure  herself  that  he  really  under 
stood  the  new  address.  In  order  to  pay  him  and  to  settle 
her  few  little  bills,  she  was  obliged  to  sell  her  parlour  furni 
ture,  blue  lamp  and  all. 

Winter  was  beginning  to  set  in  when  they  moved.  It 
was  a  raw  and  bitter  day,  blankly  gray  overhead.  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy  lingered  in  the  old  flat  where  she  had  lived  for  twelve 
years,  watching  the  Italian  carry  out  her  things,  her  heart 
sick  with  shame  to  be  leaving  the  place  in  this  fashion,  her 
parlour  furniture  sold,  her  daughter  "in  trouble."  There  was 
nothing  left  now  but  the  barest  essentials — things  to  sleep 
on,  to  be  covered  with,  to  cook  with,  and  a  chair  or  two. 

Angelica  had  gone  by  surface-car  to  the  new  home,  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  cart.  For  the  moment  each  of  them 
was  alone  in  a  dismal  bare  flat,  hopelessly  similar.  It  was 
a  day  of  gloom.  The  removal  had  brought  home  to  them 
most  forcibly  their  desperate  position,  their  helplessness, 
their  desolation.  They  had  only  each  other — no  other 
friend,  no  other  resource. 

They  set  to  work  at  once,  in  the  dusk,  to  arrange  their 
furniture;  and  when  a  barren  sort  of  order  had  been 
achieved,  Mrs.  Kennedy  went  out  in  search  of  the  usual 
little  shop  where  she  might  buy  a  bite  for  Angelica's  supper. 
She  tried  her  best  to  be  calm,  resolute,  strong ;  but  her  heart 


ANGELICA  197 

was  like  lead  as  she  hurried  through  the  unfamiliar  streets, 
chilled  by  a  cold  wind  from  the  river,  and  by  a  far  colder 
and  bleaker  apprehension. 

She  caught  sight  of  a  brightly  lighted  little  grocery-store, 
and  she  went  in.  Another  pang!  Here  she  was  no  one; 
simply  a  poorly  dressed  stranger  with  a  paltry  handful  of 
change.  She  remembered  her  own  cheerful  young  grocer 
with  positive  anguish.  It  was  almost  the  last  straw. 

She  came  back,  half  running,  with  her  little  bag  under 
her  arm,  entered  the  strange  doorway,  rang  the  strange  bell. 
Her  daughter  admitted  her. 

"I  didn't  do  much,"  Angelica  said.  "I  started  to  scrub 
the  shelves,  but  I  felt  tired.  Anyway,  what  does  it  matter?-" 

She  had  been  sitting  in  a  dreadful  apathy  in  the  forlorn 
kitchen;  she  sank  down  again  on  the  old  step-ladder  chair. 

"If  only  I  had  a  bit  of  linoleum  for  the  floor !"  began  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  looking  down  at  the  filthy  boards.  "A  nice  check 
pattern,  like  Mrs.  Stone  had " 

Angelica  stopped  her. 

"I  prayed,"  she  said. 


"Oh,  my  deary !    I'm  so  glad.    God'll  hear  you  and " 

"I  prayed  it  would  die." 

"Angle!" 

"You  'didn't  think  I  wanted  it,  did  you?" 

"You'll  feel  different  when  it's  here." 

"I  sha'n't.  Lots  of  people  don't.  It's  a  curse  to  me,  a 
curse!  A  baby — me  with  a  living  to  earn  the  rest  of  my 
life!  No — I'll  hate  it.  I  do  now.  I'd  have  to  hate  any  child 
with  his  blood  in  it.  I  hope  it'll  die !" 

"That's  a  wicked,  wicked  thing  to  say,  Angie." 

"Maybe  you'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  wicked  I  feel. 
My  Gawd,  what  I've  done!  The  chance  I've  thrown  away!" 

"That's  not  like  you,  my  deary." 

"I'm  not  like  me — not  like  the  me  I  thought  I  was.  I 
tfibught  I  was — oh,  I  don't  know — kind  of  a  wonder:  and 


I98  ANGELICA 

after  all,  I'm  nothing  but — this.  Going  to  have  a  baby — 
pretending  to  be  married — not  a  cent!  It's  a  grand  end,  all 
right!" 

"End,  Angie?" 

"Yes,  end.    I'm  done— finished !" 


ii 

Not  her  suffering,  though.  That  had  just  begun.  All  that 
winter  and  through  the  spring  she  lived  in  a  misery  without 
relief  or  solace.  She  could  think  of  nothing  in  all  the  uni 
verse  but  her  own  torment.  She  was  ashamed  to  go  out,  in 
spite  of  her  mother's  account  of  her  as  a  married  daughter 
with  a  husband  gone  to  war,  in  spite  of  the  wedding-ring  the 
poor  embarrassed  woman  had  bought  for  her  at  the  ten-cent 
store.  She  felt  that  she  had  in  no  way  the  appearance  of  a 
young  wife.  She  felt  herself  to  be  obviously  and  flagrantly 
an  outcast. 

She  was  ill,  too,  and  so  hopeless,  so  profoundly  dejected, 
that  she  saw  no  sense  in  getting  up.  She  lay  on  her  cot  in  the 
bedroom,  dark  as  the  former  one,  day  after  day.  Now  and 
then  a  bit  of  sewing  was  brought  to  her  to  do,  and  then  she 
would  drag  herself  into  the  kitchen  and  sit  by  the  window, 
where  there  was  a  little  more  light,  until  the  work  was  done. 
Otherwise  she  simply  lay  there,  her  black  hair  uncombed,  an 
old  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  in  fathomless  'despair. 

Life  was  too  ghastly  to  contemplate.  She  could  see  noth 
ing  before  her  worth  living  for.  Vincent  was  gone,  and  with 
him  love  and  youth ;  Eddie  was  gone,  and  with  him  security 
and  hope.  Whether  the  baby  lived  or  died,  she  was  dis 
graced.  She  could  never,  never  forget  that  she  had  been  cast 
aside. 

They  were  bitterly  poor,  and  seldom  had  enough  to  eat. 
There  was  nothing  to  relieve  their  monotonous  pain  and 
anxiety ;  not  a  neighbour  to  exchange  a  word  with,  not  a  bit 


ANGELICA  199 

of  gossip  to  amuse  them — nothing,  nothing1,  nothing,  from 
morning  till  night  but  their  own  sad  faces,  their  own  listless 
voices,  their  own  leaden  hearts,  their  own  undying  appre 
hension. 

"It  511  all  seem  different,  deary,  when  you're  well  again," 
Mrs.  Kennedy  told  her  child.  "Then  you'll  go  to  work  again, 
and  we  won't  be  so  pinched.  You'll  go  back  to  the  factory 
and  see  your  friends,  and  go  out,  like  you  used  to,  to  the 
movies,  and  dances." 

"I  won't.-  There'll  be  a  child  to  look  after  and  feed.  Just 
to  work  in  a  factory  till  I'm  too  old,  and  then — I  don't  know 
— die  in  the  poorhouse,  I  guess !" 

"There's  lots  of  things  might  happen,  Angie.  Maybe 
you'll  marry.  There's  men  that  would  be  willing  to  over 
look " 

"Well,  I  don't  want  'em.    I'm  through  with  men." 

"Then  maybe  you'll  get  on  fine  in  some  kind  of  business." 

"No  chance  of  that!  I  haven't  any  education.  I'm  too 
ignorant.  Don't  try  to  make  up  things  to  comfort  me;  I 
know  how  it  '11  be." 

But  still  she  didn't,  she  couldn't,  want  to  die.  No  matter 
how  terrible  her  future  looked,  her  strong  spirit  clung  to  life, 
even  the  most  repulsive  life.  It  wasn't  that  she  feared  death, 
but  she  resented  it.  It  was  the  complete  defeat,  the  final 
outrage. 

As  her  time  drew  near,  she  began  greatly  to  dread  dying. 
She  would  lie  by  the  hour,  thinking  of  death,  in  a  sort  of 
silent  fury. 


in 

At  last  it  came  upon  her,  one  July  morning,  that  most 
shocking  and  insensate  of  nature's  cruelties.  Her  mother 
sat  by  her  in  fatalistic  patience,  knowing  well  that  there  was 
no  escape,  no  alleviation.  There  was  a  doctor  whom  Mrs. 


200  ANGELICA 

Kennedy  had  summoned — not  the  noble  and  kindly  physician 
of  Angelica's  romance,  but  an  indifferent  and  callous  one 
accustomed  to  the  poor  and  their  profitless  agonies.  He  was 
very  cheerful.  He  was  able  to  look  down  upon  that  young 
face  distorted  in  brutal  anguish,  and  smile. 

"Nothing  to  be  done  now,"  he  said.  "I'll  look  in  again  in 
an  hour  or  so." 

He  returned  too  late.  The  protesting  little  spirit  had 
entered  the  world  without  him,  and  lay  crying,  wrapped  in 
an  old  flannel  night-dress,  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  lap,  while  the 
young  mother  watched  it  with  unfathomable  eyes. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

i 

Angelica  sat  at  the  kitchen  table,  her  blouse  torn  ruaely 
open  at  the  neck,  wet  through  with  perspiration,  haggard  and 
worn  almost  beyond  recognition. 

"My  Gawd'"  she  said,  pushing  back  her  hair.  "It's  hot 
as  hell,  mommer !" 

Mrs.  Kennedy  sighed,  without  speaking  or  interrupting 
her  work.  She  was  standing  at  the  ironing-board,  finishing  a 
big  week's  washing.  It  was  a  night  of  intolerable  and  sultry 
heat,  and  the  kitchen,  with  the  stove  lighted  for  the  irons, 
and  the  gas  blazing  for  light,  was  a  place  of  torment.  The 
two  women  were  curiously  pallid,  curiously  alert,  with  the 
terrible  activity  of  exhaustion.  They  had  reached  so  high  a 
point  of  suffering,  both  physical  and  mental,  on  that  night, 
that  they  were  no  longer  aware  of  their  pain. 

"Listen,  mommer!"  said  Angelica.  "Here's  what  I've 
written." 

She  picked  up  the  sheet  of  soft  paper  with  blue  lines,  on 
which  the  ink  blurred  and  the  pen  dug  and  scratched,  and  on 
which  she  had  written : 

VINCENT: 

The  baby  has  been  sick  all  the  time,  and  now  he  is  worse.  You 
got  to  send  some  money  for  him.  You  got  to  find  it  somewhere  if 
you  have  not  got  it.  He  is  in  a  terrible  bad  state.  He  only  weighs 
six  pounds,  and  he  is  going  on  for  six  weeks.  ANGELICA. 

She  read  it  in  her  hoarse,  thrilling  voice,  and  it  sounded  so 
vehement,  so  passionate,  so  touching,  that  they  both  believed 
the  letter  to  be  so  in  itself. 

201 


202  ANGELICA 

"Now  I'll  run  out  and  mail  it,"  she  said 

Just  as  she  was,  with  disheveled  hair  and  unfastened 
blouse,  she  hurried  out  into  the  street  A  man  spoke  to  her, 
and  she  swore  at  him. 

She  was  back  within  a  few  minutes,  panting,  but  her 
mother  was  no  longer  in  the  kitchen ;  she  had  gone  into  the 
dark  bedroom  to  quiet  the  poor  little  baby. 

"I'll  hold  him,  Angie,"  she  said.    "You  can  go  on  ironing." 

But  Angelica  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  child 
on  her  mother's  lap. 

"Gawd!  Little  feller!  Little  love!  Gawd,  I  wish  he'd 
die  and  be  out  of  this!" 

Her  mother  could  not  rebuke  her.  Worn  out  by  unending 
worry,  by  lack  of  sleep,  by  the  heat,  by  intolerable  toil  for 
the  tiny  thing,  she,  too,  could  only  wish  it  dead.  It  suffered 
so;  it  was  so  weak,  so  pitiful. 

Night  after  night  they  had  held  it  in  their  arms,  close  to 
the  window,  where  it  might  get  what  air  there  was.  They 
sang  to  it,  rocked  it,  bathed  its  wasted  little  body  to  cool  it, 
and  all  the  while  it  wailed  in  its  feeble  voice — a  weak,  mo 
notonous,  heart-rending  sound.  They  tended  it  by  day  and 
by  night.  From  time  to  time  it  slept,  but  fitfully,  the  beating 
of  its  little  heart  shaking  its  emaciated  body. 

Angelica  would  sit  beside  it,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  scarcely 
daring  to  breathe  in  her  terror  that  it  might  die  as  it  slept  ; 
for  though  she  said  and  she  meant  that  she  wished  it  to  die 
and  be  free  of  its  misery,  for  her  own  sake  she  longed  for 
it  to  live  to  the  utmost  limit,  no  matter  if  every  day  and 
every  night  were  a  pain  to  her,  and  her  whole  life  went  by 
in  its  service.  She  wanted  to  be  holding  it  in  her  arms  every 
waking  hour ;  she  could  not  sleep  unless  it  lay  within  the  reach 
of  her  hand.  Even  if  she  went  to  the  corner  on  an  errand 
for  her  mother,  she  was  filled  with  panic  until  she  had  got 
back  to  it,  and  had  seen  it  and  touched  it  again. 

She  cared  for  nothing  else  whatever.     She  didn't  trouble 


ANGELICA  203 

to  dress  herself  decently;  she  no  longer  helped  her  mother 
about  the  flat.  Barefooted,  her  heavy  hair  pinned  in  a  great 
slovenly  coil,  her  blouse  unfastened,  with  a  ragged  skirt 
hanging  about  her  lean  hips,  she  would  sit  for  hours  with 
the  little  wailing  thing  in  her  arms,  pressed  against  her  bosom, 
while  she  sang  to  it  in  her  hoarse,  touching  voice. 

She  learned  all  she  could  from  the  doctor  and  the  visiting 
nurse,  and  did  just  as  they  had  told  her.  She  bathed  the 
child,  fed  it,  tended  it,  in  the  most  careful  and  professional 
way ;  but  she  would  not  let  it  alone.  The  doctor  told  her  to 
leave  it  in  the  clothes-basket  which  was  its  bed,  and  the  nurse 
assured  her  it  would  be  cooler  and  more  comfortable  there; 
but  she  could  not  restrain  herself  from  snatching  it  up.  She 
could  not  help  feeling  that  the  passion  of  her  love,  the  gen 
erous  warmth  of  her  body,  must  invigorate  and  vitalize  it. 
Most  cruel  of  all  delusions — that  love  can  save ! 


ii 

"He's  got  to  get  into  the  country,"  said  Angelica.  "That's 
all  there  is  to  it.  I'd  send  him  to  one  of  these  fresh-air  places, 
only  I  know  he'd  die  without  me.  He's  got  to  have  me.  No 
one  else  would  know  his  ways." 

"Well,  if  Mr.  Geraldine  sends— 

"If!  If!  If  he  don't,  I'll-  He's  got  to,  that's  all. 
I'll  give  him  just  one  day  more,  and  then " 

"Maybe  he's  not  there.    Maybe  he's  gone  to  the  war." 

"Not  a  chance!  Well,  if  he's  not  there,  I'll  have  to  find 
him,  and  I  will." 

There  was  no  letter  the  next  day. 

"You  got  to  telephone,"  said  Angelica  to  her  mother,  "and 
find  out  if  he  still  lives  there  at  Buena  Vista.  If  he  does,  I'll 
write  once  more." 

Her  mother  came  in  late  that  afternoon. 


204  ANGELICA 

"He's  there,"  she  said.  "Somebody — one  of  the  servants, 
I  dare  say — came  to  the  telephone,  and  I  just  said,  'Is  Mr. 
Vincent  Geraldine  there  ?'  And  she  said,  'Who  is  it  wants  to 
speak  to  him  ?'  And  I  said,  'I  only  wanted  to  know  was  he 
at  home.'  'Oh,  yes  \}  she  says.  'He's  at  home !' ' 

Poor  woman,  lugging  her  eternal  bucket !  She  looked  as  if 
she  were  being  pressed  down  by  giant  hands  which  were  forc 
ing  her  exhausted  and  gallant  body  to  its  knees.  There  was 
nothing  ready  for  her  now,  at  the  end  of  her  bitter  day — 
nothing  in  the  house  which  she  could  cook  for  supper.  Her 
bed  was  still  unmade,  there  wasn't  even  a  decent  place  for  her 
to  sit  down,  for  Angelica  occupied  the  only  rocking-chair, 
drawn  up  close  to  the  window,  where  the  baby  could  get  what 
air  there  was. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  looked  at  them,  and  for  an  instant  she  hated 
them  both — Angelica  who  so  savagely  demanded  this  un 
ceasing,  inhuman  toil  of  her,  who  took  everything  and  gave 
nothing,  not  so  much  as  a  loving  word,  and  this  wailing, 
wretched  little  creature  who  didn't  even  know  her. 

"It's  too  much!"  she  thought.    "I'm  getting  old." 

"Take  the  baby,"  said  Angelica,  "while  I  write  another 
letter." 

"I'll  get  some  supper  first." 

"No!    I've  got  to  write  now." 

"Then  put  the  kettle  on,  so's  we  can  have  a  cup  of  tea 
before  long,"  said  her  mother,  and  sat  down  with  the 
wretched,  hot  little  baby  in  her  arms. 

VINCENT : 

This  child  is  going  to  die.  You  got  to  help  it.  If  you  do  not  send 
me  some  money  for  him  right  away,  I  will  go  out  after  you  and 
get  it.  I  don't  care  if  you  are  hard  up.  You  can  get  it  somewhere, 
and  you  got  to.  This  child  will  die  if  you  don't.  ANGELICA. 

"Deary,"  said  her  mother,  "I  don't  think  it's  any  good." 
"It  is!"  Angelica  assured  her.    "He's  got  to  pay!" 


ANGELICA  205 

in 

An  answer  came  quickly  enough.  Angelica  smiled  grimly 
as  she  saw  the  envelope.  She  and  her  mother  were  sitting 
together  over  their  supper  of  tinned  pork  and  beans,  Mrs. 
Kennedy  eating  with  one  hand  while  she  held  the  fitfully 
sleeping  baby. 

"Now  we'll  see,"  said  Angelica.  "It's  always  a  guess  with 
that  feller.  You  never  know  what  he'll  say." 

Vincent  wrote  thus : 

ANGELICA  : 

I  would  if  I  could.  I  am  not  altogether  a  brute,  a  monster.  I 
am  not  callous  to  the  sufferings  of  my  own  child;  but  I  have  abso 
lutely  nothing.  Ever  since  I  had  your  first  letter  I  have  been  think 
ing,  trying  my  utmost  to  discover  some  way  to  help  you. 

And  the  only  way  I  can  do  so  is  to  appeal  to  Eddie,  to  tell  him 
the  whole  story,  and  to  throw  ourselves  on  his  mercy.  It  will  be  a 
bitter  blow  to  him,  and  it  is  a  terrible  penance  for  me  to  tell  him; 
but,  for  your  sake,  I  must  bear  the  pain  of  telling  and  he  of  hearing. 
He  will  help  us,  Angelica.  He  is  a  generous  and  noble  soul.  He 
has  never  yet  failed  me. 

She  remained  stupefied. 

"D'ye  mean  Eddie  doesn't  know?"  she  cried,  addressing 
an  invisible  Vincent. 

It  was  such  an  amazing  idea  to  her.  She  had  always  imag 
ined  Eddie  as  possessed  of  all  the  details.  She  had  often 
thought  of  him,  sitting  in  his  trench  in  the  moonlight,  re 
flecting  with  grief  and  bitterness  over  her  infamy.  She  had 
looked  upon  him  as  utterly  lost,  beyond  her  reach.  She  had 
believed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  all  those  people  knew, 
arid  despised  and  hated  her — Polly,  Mrs.  Russell,  all  the 
servants. 

"Why,  mommer!"  she  cried.    "He— 

"Whatever  is  it,  child?"  asked  Mrs.  Kennedy,  surprised  at 
the  strange  look  on  her  daughter's  face.  Angelica  had  risen 
slowly  to  her  feet,  and  was  staring  at  her  mother.  A  new,  a 
terrible  hope  was  dawning  upon  her. 


206  ANGELICA 

"Quick,  mommer!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "I  got  to  stop 
him!" 

She  rushed  into  the  bedroom,  put  on  a  hat  over  her  dis 
ordered  hair,  pinned  together  the  open  bosom  of  her  blouse, 
and  ran  down  the  hall. 

"Angie!  Angie!"  cried  her  mother.  "Where  are  you 
going?" 

The  door  banged.    She  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  laid  the  baby  on  the  bed. 

"Cry,  if  you  must,"  she  said.  "I  can't  hold  you  any  more 
till  I've  had  a  cup  of  tea." 


IV 

Angelica  had  gone  running  up  the  street  to  a  drug-store  on 
Sixth  Avenue,  where  she  knew  there  was  a  telephone  booth. 
It  was  a  place  of  doubtful  repute.  There  was  always  a 
group  there  of  young  Italian-Americans,  flashily  dressed 
youths  of  immense  assurance,  who  were  interested  in  every 
woman  that  entered  the  store ;  but  they  didn't  care  for  An 
gelica  in  her  slatternly  dress,  with  her  fierce  and  haggard 
face. 

One  of  them  made  a  coarse  jest  about  her,  which  she 
answered  with  an  oath;  then  she  went  into  the  booth  and 
pulled  the  door  to  behind  her.  Her  heart  was  beating  fran 
tically  ;  she  was  scarcely  able  to  speak,  her  hoarse  voice  came 
out  with  an  unfamiliar  sound. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Vincent !"  she  said. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Call  him  quick!  It's  a  message  from  his  brother."  A 
silly  ruse,  but  she  was  capable  of  nothing  better.  Then,  after 
a  long  pause,  she  heard  his  voice. 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  me — Angelica.  Vincent,  don't  you  dare-  to  write  to 
Eddie !  Don't  you  dare  ever  to  let  him  know !" 


ANGELICA  207 

"My  dear  child,  Fve  already  done  so.  I've  just  put  the 
letter  in  the  box,  not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"No!"  she  cried.    "Not    You  must  get  it  back  r 

He  laughed. 

"When  once  a  letter  is  posted " 

She  gave  a  sort  of  wail.  He  was  still  speaking,  but  she 
didn't  care  what  he  said.  She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  went 
out  into  the  street  again.  Somehow  this  seemed  to  her  the 
very  worst  blow  that  had  fallen  on  her,  the  greatest  cruelty 
of  her  destiny.  To  have  got,  in  the  blackness  of  her  despair, 
this  glorious  hope,  and  to  have  it  destroyed  almost  before  it 
had  breathed ! 

It  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  one  more  desperate 
chance.  She  went  hurrying  home  again. 

"Mommer !"  she  said.    "Where's  your  money  ?'* 

"I  haven't  any  money,  Angie,  as  well  you  know.'" 

"You  have!" 

"Only  just  the  bit  that's  to  last  us  through  the  week." 

"Give  it  to  me,  quick !" 

She  snatched  up  the  flat  little  purse  and  rushed  out  again, 
pushing  her  hair  up  under  her  hat  as  she  ran.  She  didn't 
quite  know  where  to  look.  She  sought  in  vain  along  Sixth 
Avenue,  then  crossed  to  Fifth,  and  found  there  what  she 
wanted — an  empty  taxicab,  cruising  along  Madison  Square. 

"Say!"  she  called.    "Taxi!" 

The  man  stopped  and  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  A 
queer-looking  thing  she  was  to  hail  a  cab ! 

"I  want  to  go  out  to  Baycliff,"  she  said. 

"You  better  walk,  then,"  he  said.     "It's  cheaper.'* 

"Oh,  you'll  get  paid,  all  right!"  said  Angelica.  "The  peo 
ple  out  there'll  pay  you  good  and  give  you  a  tip." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  guess  not,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "You  better  find  some 
one  else.  I'm  married.  I  can't  afford  to  take  no  chances. 
Where'd  I  be,  if  I  wasn't  to  get  paid?  A  long  run  like  that, 
and  got  to  come  back  empty !" 


208  ANGELICA 


Angelica  recalled  something  which  had  been  mentioned 
in  one  of  Mrs.  Russell's  long  stories. 

"Look  here!"  she  said.  "It's  the  law.  You  got  to  take 
passengers." 

"Not  outside  the  city  limits  I  haven't,"  said  the  man. 

They  were  both  a  little  uneasy,  as  neither  of  them  felt  at 
all  sure  as  to  what  laws  there  might  or  might  not  be;  but 
Angelica  in  her  desperation  was  resourceful. 

"You  let  me  in,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  fix  it  up  with  the  people 
out  there.  See,  I'll  give  you  two  dollars  now,  but  I  won't 
tell  them  I  gave  you  anything,  and  they'll  pay  you  and  give 
you  a  tip,  too.  I'm  the  waitress  out  there,  and  they'll  be 
darned  glad  to  see  me  back.  You  didn't  ought  to  worry. 
You'd  ought  to  know  I  wouldn't  risk  getting  locked  up  just 
for  the  sake  of  a  ride.  No  one  would  take  a  chance  like  that." 

"Well,  they  do,  all  the  same,"  said  the  driver.  "It  wouldn't 
do  me  no  good  to  get  you  locked  up — not  if  you  didn't  have 
no  money." 

"It's  only  people  out  on  a  joy  ride  that  do  that,"  said  she. 
"Where'd  be  the  sense  in  me  doing  that — taking  a  ride  all 
alone  and  then  getting  locked  up?" 

He  wavered,  and  she  hurriedly  got  out  the  two  dollars — 
earned  by  long  hours  of  scrubbing  by  Mrs.  Kennedy — and 
gave  them  to  the  chauffeur.  He  was  now  practically  won; 
her  insistence  overcame  his  weak  will,  her  two  dollars 
charmed  him.  Moreover,  he  liked  her,  she  was  so  frank 
and  so  much  in  earnest. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Get  in !  Now  mind  you  treat  me 
fair — I'm  taking  a  big  risk  for  you !" 

She  was  a  strange  enough  figure,  sitting  there  in  her  dusty 
clothes,  her  battered  old  hat,  while  the  cab  sped  on,  through 
and  out  of  the  city,  along  dark  country  roads  lined  with  trees, 
past  fields,  past  marshes,  past  desolate  buildings,  past  friendly 
lighted  houses.  She  was  consumed  with  a  fever  of  haste, 
burning  with  anxiety,  looking  over  the  driver's  shoulders  at 
the  road  before  her,  which  seemed  so  endless. 


ANGELICA  209 

Now  they  were  going  up  the  hill  to  the  house — the  very 
house. 

"You  wait  a  while,"  she  said.  "The  longer  you  wait  the 
more  you'll  get  paid." 

The  front  door  stood  open,  with  only  a  screen  door  across 
the  aperture,  and  a  faint  light  from  the  hall  shone  out  on  the 
roadway.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  one  about.  She  stood 
outside,  peering  through  the  screen  into  the  hall,  listening. 
Not  a  sound ! 

She  was  obliged  to  ring  the  bell ;  and  who  should  open  the 
door  but  the  doctor  ?  He  didn't  see  who  it  was  until  he  had 
let  her  in ;  then  he  was  frightened  at  the  unexpectedness  of 
her  coming,  at  the  wild  disorder  of  her  appearance. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Vincent,"  she  answere'd.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"He  may  be  busy.    I'd  better " 

"Where  is  he?"  she  demanded. 

When  the  doctor  didn't  answer,  she  pushed  by  him  and 
ran  up-stairs. 

Vincent  -was  lying  back  in  an  armchair,  in  a  bath-robe,  his 
slender  bare  feet  on  a  second  chair.  He  was  eating  biscuits 
and  cheese  from  a  plate  balanced  on  his  knees,  and  reading  a 
magazine,  in  the  greatest  possible  comfort,  physical  and 
mental,  when  without  an  instant's  warning  Angelica  entered, 
wild,  savage,  relentless  as  a  Fury. 

He  sat  up,  drawing  the  bath-robe  tightly  about  him,  and 
tried  to  frown  at  her ;  but  he  felt,  and  he  appeared,  at  a  hor 
rible  disadvantage. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  'demanded. 

She  couldn't  speak  for  a  moment.  She  only  looked  at  him 
with  her  fierce  black  eyes,  pressing  a  hand  against  her  breast, 
as  if  to  stifle  by  force  the  tumult  there.  He  was  alarmed, 
really,  although  he  tried  so  desperately  to  look  scornful. 

"Well?"  he  asked  again.    "What  did  you  come  here  for?" 


210  ANGELICA 

"That  letter!"  she  said.  'That  letter  to  Eddie!  You 
shan't  send  it!" 

"I  have,"  he  answered. 

"No!"  she  cried.    "No!    You  haven't" 

"I  tell  you  I  have!"  he  answered  definitely.  "I  told  you 
so  over  the  telephone." 

She  stood  motionless,  staring  past  him,  oblivious  of  his 
uneasy  bewilderment.  Thoughts  were  running  through  her 
brain  like  fire  through  parched  grass.  She  remembered 
things  she  had  heard — of  the  English  suffragettes  pouring 
acid  into  mail-boxes  to  destroy  their  contents.  But  what 
did  they  use,  and  where  to  get  it  ? 

Her  vigorous  and  sutble  brain  was  never  quite  without 
resource.  She  thought  and  thought,  with  passionate  inten 
sity,  and  at  last,  suddenly,  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  went 
out  of  the  room  abruptly,  so  swiftly  and  silently  that  Vincent 
was  astonished  and  more  than  ever  alarmed.  What  in  Heav 
en's  name  was  that  damnable  girl  up  to  now  ?  He  knew  she 
wouldn't  stop  at  anything. 

He  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  door  and  peered  cautiously  out 
into  the  hall.  She  wasn't  there.  Where  was  she  ?  He  was 
certain  that  she  hadn't  given  up  and  gone  away.  She  was 
after  that  letter,  and  she  wouldn't  go  without  it 

"She's  ill,  though,"  he  muttered.  "Beastly — savage! 
Forcing  her  way  in  like  this !  My  God,  I'll  never  be  rid  of 
her !  What  the  devil  was  the  matter  with  me,  to  get  mixed  up 
with  a  girl  like  that  ?  I  wish  she'd  break  her  neck.  I  wish  I 
had  the  courage  to  wring  it !" 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  turned  pale;  for  there  on  the 
mantelpiece,  before  his  eyes,  was  the  letter.  Courtland  had 
forgotten  to  mail  it  I 

He  flew  at  it  and  tore  it  into  bits,  like  a  criminal  concealing 
some  trace  of  his  guilt.  He  was  actually  capable  of  imagin 
ing  that,  by  this,  he  had  got  the  better  of  Angelica. 


ANGELICA  211 

v 

Angelica  ran  down-stairs  to  the  kitchen,  which  was  de 
serted,  but  quite  brightly  lighted.  There,  on  the  back  of  the 
coal  range,  stood  what  she  had  expected  to  see — the  teakettle, 
gently  steaming. 

She  lifted  it,  and  went  to  the  back  door.  There  was  a 
couple — probably  Annie  and  her  young  man — sitting  in  the 
dark  on  the  steps.  She  turned  back,  went  through  the  laun 
dry  and  out  of  a  side  door;  down  the  hill,  through  the  grass, 
where  she  wouldn't  make  a  sound.  Once  she  stumbled,  and  a 
few  drops  of  scalding  water  spilled  upon  her  instep.  She 
smothered  a  shriek  of  pain,  and  hurried  on. 

There  wasn't  a  soul  in  sight;  the  road  was  quite  empty 
even  of  passing  motors.  She  crossed  to  the  other  side,  where 
the  post-box  stood,  and,  raising  herself  on  tiptoe,  she  poured 
into  it  the  entire  contents  of  the  kettle. 

Then  she  ran  into  the  woods  behind  the  box,  and  hid  the 
kettle  in  a  clump  of  thick  bushes.  She  was  satisfied  that  the 
letter  must  be  destroyed,  together  with  anything  else  the  box 
may  have  contained.  Her  conscience  did  not  reproach  her 
in  the  least  for  this  possible  injury  to  others. 

"There  couldn't  be  any  one,"  she  reflected,  "who  could 
want  any  one  else  to  get  a  letter  as  much  as  I  don't  want 
Eddie  to  get  that  one  1" 

VI 

She  rang  the  front  door-bell  again,  but  this  time  the  doctor 
didn't  let  her  in.  He  looked  at  her  through  the  screen  door 
and  shook  his  head. 

"No !''  he  said  softly.  "Better  go  away.  Don't  make  any 
disturbance,  for  your  own  sake." 

"I  only  want  to  speak  to  Vincent,"  she  said,  plaintively. 

"Better  not    Go  away  now.     Nobody's  seen  you.    Vin- 


212  ANGELICA 

cent  and  I  are  alone  in  the  house.  I'll  never  mention  it.  I'm 
your  friend,  you  know;  and  you  must  be  my  friend  if  I  need 
one,  won't  you?" 

He  had  heard  rumours,  which  he  didn't  quite  believe,  that 
Eddie  was  to  marry  this  remarkable  young  woman.  He 
knew  that  Eddie  was  capable  of  extraordinarily  quixotic 
deeds,  and  he  thought  it  just  as  well  to  have  a  friend  at  court, 
in  case Moreover,  he  liked  Angelica,  and  was  well  dis 
posed  toward  her.  The  rebuffs  he  had  received,  rude  as  they 
had  been,  hadn't  either  hurt  or  discouraged  him.  The  Lord 
who  had  made  him  so  vulnerable  to  the  charms  of  the  fair 
sex  had  likewise  provided  him  with  a  sort  of  protective 
armour. 

"Of  course  I'll  be  your  friend,"  said  Angelica;  "but  I  just 
must  speak  to  Vincent." 

"I  thought  you  had  seen  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "You 
went  up-stairs." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  him  something  very  important.  If  you 
don't  want  me  to  come,  just  make  him  come  down  here — 
please !" 

She  knew  how  to  be  meek  enough  to  serve  her  ends. 

"Please!"  she  said  again,  with  all  her  cajolery.  "Please, 
doctor !  Just  get  him  to  come  down  and  speak  to  me  through 
the  door — just  for  an  instant!" 

He  hesitated. 

"I  want  to  do  anything  I  can  for  you " 

"And  wouldn't  you  please  just  pay  that  cab?"  she  said. 
"I'm  afraid  he'll  wait  till  you  do." 

He  had  a  little  money  on  hand,  as  it  happened,  and  he  was 
proud  to  be  able  to  play  so  gallant  a  role. 

"With  pleasure!"  he  said.  "But  then  won't  you  agree  to 
postpone  your  talk  with  Vincent?" 

"I  can't!"  she  cried,  piteously.  "Oh,  do  please  get  him 
down !" 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile. 

She  waited  patiently,  close  to  the  screen.    Everything  was 


ANGELICA  213 

quiet.  The  waiting  chauffeur  had  shut  off  his  engine  and  sat 
on  the  step  of  his  cab,  smoking.  Far  away,  from  some  other 
house,  came  the  thumping  rhythm  of  a  piano-player,  and 
quite  close  to  her  the  busy  chirping  of  little  nocturnal  insects. 

Before  very  long,  Vincent's  heavy  tread  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  His  big  body  loomed  up  in  the  dim  light  of  the  hall, 
and  drew  near  to  her ;  but  he  did  not  unlock  the  door.  She 
suppressed  a  smile.  He  was  afraid  of  her — that  big,  master 
ful  poet,  forever  proclaiming  himself  a  man! 

"Well !"  he  demanded,  sternly,  of  the  girl  outside. 

"I  spoiled  your  letter,"  she  said.    "Eddie  '11  never  get  it." 

"What?    I'll  write  another— 

"You'd  better  not  do  that,  Vincent.  He  wouldn't  be 
pleased  with  the  way  you've  acted." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  it's  my  duty " 

"Don't  any  of  them  know  ?    Not  your  mother  or  any  one  ?" 

"Of  course  not.  I'm  not  the  sort  to  tell  such  a  thing.  If 
it  wasn't  my  duty  now,  I  wouldn't." 

"I  thought  it  was  to  get  money  to  help  me  out." 

"Well — yes,  partly;  but  he  really  ought  to  know,  in  case 
he  still  thinks  of  marrying  you." 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  mustn't  know.  Look  here, 
Vincent!  I've  done  this  one  bad  thing  in  my  life.  I  never 
did  anything  bad  before,  and  I  never  will  again ;  but  if  it  was 
known,  I'd  never  be  forgiven.  I'd  never  get  another  chance 
— from  any  one;  and  I  mean  to  have  another  chance.  It's 
never  going  to  be  known.  I'm  not  going  to  be  ruined  and 
wasted,  just  for  one — badness.  It's  going  to  be  wiped  out, 
I  tell  you!" 

"It  will  never  be  wiped  out.  You'll  never  forget,  Angelica 
— you'll  never,  never  forget  me.  You  can't  love  again. 
You've  lost  heaven,  my  girl." 

She  was  still  for  a  moment. 

"Maybe  I  have,"  she  said.  "Maybe  I  have  lost  heaven. 
But,"  she  went  on,  "I'll  get  what  I  can,  anyway.  I'm  going 
to  have  my  chance.  Vincent !" 


2i4  ANGELICA 

Her  voice  was  so  low  that  he  had  to  press  against  the 
screen  to  hear  her;  and  her  words  came  in  an  incredibly 
ferocious  whisper,  that  turned  his  blood  cold : 

"If  ever  you  tell  him,  Vincent,  I  swear  to  Gawd  I'll  kill 
you!" 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


Through  the  front  basement  window  Mrs.  Kennedy  saw 
Angelica  returning,  a  shockingly  disheveled  figure  in  the 
sweltering  midday  heat.  She  hurried  to  the  door,  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Angie!"  she  cried.  "You  cruel,  cruel,  bad  girl! 
Where  have  you  been?  I've  been  near  crazy,  left  alone  here 
all  night  and  morning  with  the  baby,  and  not  a  penny  in  the 
house.  Of  course  I  couldn't  do  my  work " 

"Hush !"  said  Angelica,  sternly.  "Don't  bother  me.  I'm 
too  tired.  I  had  to  walk  all  the  way  back.  Make  me  some 
tea!" 

She  took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  sat  down  in  the  rocking- 
chair,  holding  it  pressed  against  her  breast  and  staring  over 
its  head,  indifferent  to  its  crying,  and  the  feeble  beating  of  its 
little  hands. 

She  had  her  tea  and  bread  with  it ;  then  she  lay  down  on 
her  cot,  always  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  fell  asleep. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  looked  in  upon  them,  saw  them  both  quiet,  the 
little,  downy  head  resting  against  Angelica's  shoulder,  and 
she  devoutly  hoped  that  this  period  of  rest  might  solace  her 
daughter  after  whatever  demoniacal  adventure  she  had  un 
dergone  that  night.  She  picked  up  her  pail  and  went  out  to 
work. 

When  she  came  in  again  at  five  o'clock,  they  were  both 
gone. 

ii 

Polly  was  reading,  stretched  out  on  the  sofa  of  her  charm 
ing  little  room,  near  the  window  which  gave  her  a  fine  view 

215 


2i6  ANGELICA 

of  the  Hudson  and  a  cool  breeze.  Her  maid  had  gone  out, 
and  she  was  quite  alone  in  her  little  flat,  content  and  languid, 
rejoicing  in  her  dignified  solitude. 

Here  she  was  living  as  she  liked  to  live,  with  her  music, 
her  books,  her  very  few  and  very  casual  friends,  and  long, 
long  hours  of  delicate  idleness.  She  enjoyed  the  blissful 
serenity  of  a  convalescent,  or  a  freed  prisoner.  After  her 
two  heart-breaking  experiences  of  married  life,  after  the 
anguish  of  her  dear  child's  death,  she  was  happy  now  to  be 
quite  alone,  to  love  no  one,  and  to  be  hurt  by  no  one.  She 
wished  to  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  alone. 

Eddie  had  arranged  her  affairs  so  that  she  once  more 
received  her  decent  little  income.  She  didn't  enquire  as  to 
how  he  had  done  this.  She  suspected  that  for  the  present  it 
must  be  coming  direct  from  his  pocket,  but  she  preferred  not 
to  know. 

She  had  a  vague  intention  of  some  day  divorcing  Vincent, 
but  she  was  never  capable  of  action  without  some  spur. 
There  wasn't  any  cause  now.  She  was  rid  of  him,  and  she 
had  her  money  again.  Her  deepest  instinct — the  instinct  of 
a  woman  by  temperament  unfitted  to  make  her  own  way  in 
the  world — caused  her  to  value  her  money  above  anything. 
It  meant  all  that  was  desirable  in  life — ease,  dignity,  and 
freedom. 

How  happy  she  was  in  her  loose,  fresh  white  wrapper, 
looking  so  much  younger,  so  much  more  charming — smoking 
her  thin  little  cigarettes  and  reading  some  book  which  entirely 
engaged  her  attention — agreeably  conscious,  none  the  less, 
of  a  nice  little  supper  left  by  her  devoted  servant  in  the  ice 
box!  It  was  only  half-past  five,  but  she  was  growing  hun 
gry,  and  she  was  dallying  with  this  idea  of  supper,  when  the 
door-bell  rang. 

This  was  startling,  for  the  boy  in  the  hall  down-stairs  was 
supposed  to  stop  intruders  and  to  telephone  up  to  her  before 
admitting  them.  And  so  loud  a  ring ! 

Again !    She  got  up  and  opened  the  door. 


ANGELICA  217 

She  gasped  at  the  spectacle  of  Angelica  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms. 

"My  dear  Angelica !"  she  cried.    "I  never " 

"Let  me  sit  down,"  said  Angelica.    "I'm  dead  tired." 

So  she  came  into  Polly's  tranquil  sitting-room,  as  out  of 
place  there  as  a  wild  animal — the  fierce,  rough  Angelica  with 
her  wailing  baby.  She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  held  the 
child  up — a  wretched,  frail  little  creature,  with  a  wizen, 
troubled  face. 

"See  him?    Two  months  old." 

"He's  sweet.  But,  my  dear,  I  didn't  know  you  were  mar 
ried." 

"I'm  not  married.  Listen,  Mrs.  Geraldine !  I  got  to  have 
a  talk  with  you." 

"Of  course!  But,  my  dear,  isn't  there  something  you 
could  do  for  your  baby?  He  seems  so " 

"He's  sick.  He's  sick  all  the  time ;  but  the  doctor  says  if  he 
gets  good  care,  there's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  grow  up 
strong  and  all  right.  It  does  make  him  kind  of  an  extra 
trouble  now,  but  after  you've  had  him  here  a  few  months, 
Mrs.  Geraldine " 

"I've  had  him  here!" 

"Listen!"  cried  Angelica,  in  anguish.  "Please,  please, 
Mrs.  Geraldine,  don't  say  no !  Wait  till  you  hear.  Wait  till 
you  think.  Think  about  that  baby  you  lost.  Oh,  do,  for 
Gawd's  sake,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  take  this  baby !" 

"My  dear  girl !"  cried  Polly.  "You  must  be  mad!  What 
in  the  world  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"Oh,  please,  please,  please,  for  Gawd's  sake !  Just  think  of 
the  poor  little  feller  you  lost.  Take  this  one  instead.  I  can't 
keep  him,  Mrs.  Geraldine.  He'll  only  die.  You're  too  good 
and  kind  to  let  a  little  baby  die.  You  got  to  take  him.  You'll 
never  have  a  moment's  peace,  night  or  day,  if  you  don't!" 

"But,  Angelica,  it's  outrageous!" 

"I  don't  know  the  words  to  use.     I  don't  know  how  to 


218  ANGELICA 

make  you.  Oh,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  I  can  only  just  beg  and  pray 
to  you  to  take  him !" 

"My  dear,  I'll  help  you,  if  I  can.  I'll  be  glad  to  lend  you 
money,  or  help  you  in  any  other  way." 

"No — I  can't  keep  him.  You  see,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  I'm 
going  to  marry  Eddie,  and  I  can't  ever  let  him  know  about 
this." 

"Angelica!"  cried  Polly,  aghast.  "I  certainly  won't  help 
you  to  deceive  Eddie." 

"I  know;  but  it  would  be  much,  much  worse  to  tell  him.. 
He's  crazy  about  me,  and  I  can  make  him  happy.  This  is 
the  only  wrong  thing  I've  ever  done,  ever,  and  I'm  never 
going  to  do  another.  I'm  going  to  be  good  as  gold,  Mrs. 
Geraldine.  If  Eddie  knew,  he'd  never  forgive  me.  I'd  never 
get  a  chance  to  be  good.  That's  why  I  came  to  you.  On  ac 
count  of  Eddie,  won't  you  do  it  to  make  him  happy?" 

"I  could  not  deceive  Eddie." 

"Oh,  why  not?  Why,  for  Gawd's  sake,  tell  the  truth  and 
spoil  Eddie's  life,  and  be  the  death  of  this  poor  little  feller  and 
the  ruin  of  me?  Oh,  just  take  him!  Take  him!"  she  cried, 
tears  running  down  her  cheeks.  "You'll  love  him.  You'll 
be  awful  glad  to  feel  him  next  to  you  in  bed,  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  You'll  love  him  so.  You're  the  only  one  I 
know  in  the  world  that  I  wouldn't  mind  leaving  him  with. 
I  know  he  cries  an  awful  lot,  but  that's  because  he's  sick; 
and  if  you  take  him,  and  he  has  the  best  of  everything,  he'll 
soon  be  fat  and  well,  and  you'll  be  proud  of  him.  Oh,  say 
you  will!" 

Tears  stood  in  Polly's  eyes. 

"My  dear,  you  mustn't  give  up  your  child.  I'll  help  you, 
so  that  you  can  keep  him." 

"No,  no !    I  can't !    I'm  going  to  marry  Eddie." 

"Give  up  the  idea.  Go  off  somewhere  and  live  quietly 
with  your  dear  little  baby." 

"No !  You  can't  support  me  and  him  both.  It  would  just 
be  me  and  mommer  over  again — me  going  out  by  the  day  to 


ANGELICA  219 

keep  him  alive,  and  the  two  of  us  having  nothing — no 
chances,  no  nothing.  That's  if  he'd  even  live.  No;  the 
only,  only  thing  is  for  you  to  take  him." 

"But,  Angelica,  what  in  the  world  would  I  do  with  him  ?" 

"Get  a  good  nurse.  I'll  find  one,  if  you  want,  from  a 
hospital." 

"But  what  would  people  say?" 

"Say  he's  yours.  No  one  would  know  the  difference. 
Tell  Eddie  he's  yours.  Tell  Vincent,  too." 

"Vincent  wouldn't  believe  it." 

"Well,  he  could  say  so,  anyway.  My  Gawd,  that's  little 
enough  to  do  for  the  poor  little  feller!" 

"It's  not  a  little  thing,  Angelica — it's  a  great  deal,  to 
expect  Vincent  to  say  he  is  your  child's  father." 

"Well,  he  is!"  said  Angelica.    "I  forgot  to  tell  you  that." 


CHAPTER  SIX 


"It  seems  to  be  my  fate,"  said  Polly  to  herself,  "to  be 
always  forgiving  and  benefiting  those  that  despitefully  use 
me.  Imagine  me  taking  this  child — Vincent's  child — and 
not  feeling  the  least  resentment  toward  Angelica.  I'm  only 
sorry  for  her." 

She  was  watching  the  baby  lying  on  the  lap  of  a  lively 
and  capable  young  nurse,  whom  she  had  got  by  telephone. 

"I'm  going  to  adopt  this  child,"  she  had  explained  to  the 
young  woman.  "His  mother  can't  keep  him." 

"It's  a  risk,"  said  the  nurse.  "You  never  know  how 
they'll  turn  out ;  but  he's  a  pretty  little  fellow — big  gray  eyes 
and  all.  He's  been  badly  fed,  but  I  guess  we  can  build  him 
up." 

Polly  lapsed  into  a  strange,  an  inexpressible  mood.  Vin 
cent's  baby !  Wasn't  it  really  sent  to  her  to  take  the  place  of 
the  one  she  had  so  cruelly  lost?  She  certainly  didn't  intend 
to  pass  the  child  off  as  her  own,  but  she  would  adopt  it  and 
bring  it  up.  She  would  love  it.  The  starved  and  thwarted 
love  which  no  one  else  wanted  welled  up  in  her  heart. 

"He'll  be  a  lot  of  trouble  to  you,"  said  the  nurse,  looking 
about  the  orderly,  pretty  little  place.  "You  certainly  are 
good  to  take  such  a  burden  on  yourself." 

"I  lost  a  little  child  of  my  own,"  said  Polly. 

And  a  dreadful  pity  for  herself,  and  for  Angelica,  came 
over  her. 

She  might  well  be  sorry  for  Angelica,  going  out  of  the 
house  without  that  little  burden  in  her  arms. 

This  was  the  supreme  hour  of  Angelica's  punishment — 


ANGELICA  221 

the  inhuman  struggle  between  her  heart  and  her  brain.  She 
did  not  look  upon  it  as  a  punishment,  however;  she  looked 
upon  this  horrible  renunciation  of  her  child  as  a  part  of  the 
price  she  was  obliged  to  pay  for  a  magnificent  future.  She 
was  bent,  resolute,  with  all  the  savage  resolution  of  her  law 
less  soul,  to  marry  Eddie  and  to  obtain  all  that  she  so  desired. 
If  she  must  sacrifice  her  child,  then  she  would  do  so,  though 
it  left  a  wound  never  to  be  healed. 

She  didn't  seek  for  happiness ;  if  it  had  been  that  she 
wanted,  she  would  have  kept  her  little  baby.  She  was  ready 
and  willing  to  give  up  happiness  for  success.  She  wished  to 
vindicate  herself,  to  give  proof  to  the  world  of  the  power 
which  she  knew  to  be  within  herself. 

Oh,  to  be  going  home  alone,  with  empty  arms !  It  was  too 
cruel!  She  longed  for  the  feel  of  that  little  body,  for  the 
sound  of  its  feeble  voice,  for  its  eyes  looking  up  at  her  in 
pain  and  innocence.  She  walked  through  the  streets  with 
streaming  eyes,  running  against  people,  indifferent  to  abuse 
or  remonstrance. 

"I  can't  go  home  without  him!"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  my 
little  feller !  I  can't  go  home  and  see  his  little  clothes — and 
his  empty  basket !" 

She  stopped  short. 

"No !"  she  said.  "I  can't  do  this.  I  thought  I  could,  but  I 
can't.  I  got  to  have  him  back.  I'd  rather  he  died  home  with 
me.  Oh,  I  wish  we  were  dead,  the  two  of  us,  dead  and 
buried — him  and  me  in  one  grave!" 

She  turned  and  retraced  her  long  road  to  Polly's  house, 
as  far  as  the  door ;  but  she  did  not  go  in. 

"No !  Him  in  there  with  a  trained  nurse — no !  I'll  give 
him  his  chance,  my  poor  little  feller;  and  I'll  give  myself  a 
chance,  too,"  she  added.  She  started  down-town  again ;  but 
the  nearer  she  got  to  home,  the  more  unbearable  was  the  idea 
of  entering  there,  alone. 

"If  only  I  was  over  this  first  night!"  she  moaned.  "If  I 
could  only  just  forget  him  till  to-morrow!" 


222  ANGELICA 

n 

Mrs.  Kennedy  kept  on  working.  She  didn't  dare  to  stop, 
to  give  herself  a  moment  to  think. 

They  were  both  gone.  Very  well  I  She  would  simply 
expect  them  back,  resolutely  refusing  to  think  where  they 
had  gone,  what  they  might  be  doing.  At  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  she  began  to  clean  her  flat.  Then  she  cooked  a 
nice  little  supper  and  set  it  in  the  oven  to  keep  warm.  She 
mixed  condensed  milk  and  water  in  a  bottle  for  the  baby. 
She  boiled  its  dirty  clothes.  Then,  in  a  desperate  search  for 
work  to  do,  she  found  an  old  pair  of  white  shoes  of  An 
gelica's,  and  began  to  clean  them,  singing  all  the  while  in  a 
weird,  cracked  voice : 

"Af-ter  the  ball  is  over,  ai-ter  the  ball  is  done." 

She  was  trying  with  all  her  might  to  keep  out  of  her  head 
a  terrible  vision  of  a  young  mother  standing  on  a  bridge  at 
night,  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

Still  humming,  she  went  into  the  bedroom,  undressed,  and 
got  into  bed,  in  a  waking  nightmare,  half  hypnotizing  herself 
with  her  monotonous  little  song.  She  was  too  far  gone  even 
to  feel  relieved  when  at  last  she  heard  Angelica's  footsteps 
in  the  hall,  heard  her  go  into  the  kitchen  and  light  the  gas. 
Then  silence.  She  lay  listening  for  the  baby's  cry;  there 
wasn't  a  sound. 

"What  can  she  be  doing  in  there?"  she  thought.  "And 
what  makes  the  baby  so  quiet  ?" 

Fear  struggled  against  the  lethargy  that  engulfed  her. 
She  got  up,  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  stood  in  the  doonvay  in 
her  long,  old-fashioned  nightgown,  regarding  her  child. 
Angelica  sat  beside  the  table,  with  a  small  box  in  her  lap. 

"Angie !    Where's  the  baby  ?"  cried  her  mother. 

"Gone,"  said  Angelica.    "I  got  a  lady  to  take  him." 

"Your  own  child?"  screamed  her  mother.  "Your  own 
little  baby?  Oh,  shame  on  you!" 


ANGELICA  223 

"Shut  up!  You  don't  understand.  Do  you  think  I  liked 
to  give  him  away?" 

"Then  get  him  back!  Get  him  back,  Angie!  I'll  work 
for  him  till  I  drop.  Don't  give  him  up!" 

"He's  gone,  I  tell  you.  Let  me  alone!  Can't  you  see 
how  I  feel?" 

"Then  why,  why,  why  did  you  do  it,  Angie?" 

Angelica  stared  at  her  somberly. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  had  to.  I  thought  it  would 
be  the  best  thing  for  him.  She — the  woman  that's  taken  him 
— she  can  do  a  lot  for  him.  She's  kind  and  good.  You'd 
like  her." 

"Who  is  she?" 

Angelica  did  not  intend  to  tell.  She  was  too  well  aware  of 
the  preposterousness  of  having  taken  Vincent's  child  to  his 
wife. 

"No  one  you  know,"  she  said. 

Her  mother  was  completely  softened  by  this  new  idea, 
that  Angelica  had  given  up  her  dearly  loved  child  for  its  own 
good. 

"You  poor  girl!"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you  meant  to  do 
what  was  best  for  him.  But — 

"I  thought  it  would  help  me,  too,"  said  Angelica.  "I 
couldn't  keep  him." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  shocked.  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak  again,  but  Angelica  stopped  her  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"No  more!"  she  said.  "I've  had  enough.  Now  you  bet 
ter  go  back  to  bed." 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you,"  said  her  mother.  She  could 
imagine  how  hideous  would  be  Angelica's  loneliness. 

"You  better!" 

"Why?    What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Angelica  held  up  her  tiny  box. 

"Heroin,"  she  said.  "I  got  it  off  a  feller  I  know.  I  don't 
want  to  think  about  anything  to-night." 

For  an  instant  the  small  figure  in  the  long  night-dress 


224  ANGELICA 

wavered ;  then,  with  a  pitiful  scream,  she  ran  out  of  the  room 
and  cast  herself  on  her  bed. 

"It's  too  much,  God !"  she  cried.     "I  can't  bear  any  more. 
Take  me  to-night,  oh,  merciful  God!" 


ill 

Mrs.  Kennedy  listened  in  vain  all  through  the  night. 
From  time  to  time  she  dozed,  to  wake  with  a  start  of  fright. 
She  had  no  knowledge  of  drugs,  only  horrible  superstitions. 
She  expected  Angelica  to  be  changed  in  some  way  beyond 
recognition.  Would  she  be  violent — fight  and  struggle  with 
her?  Would  she  kill  herself — set  the  house  on  fire? 

At  dawn  she  waked  from  a  brief  nap,  resentful  to  find 
herself  still  alive.  Sick  with  apprehension,  weary  beyond 
all  measure,  she  went  into  the  kitchen,  to  see  what  had  be 
come  of  her  child. 

Angelica  was  asleep,  with  Her  head  on  the  table.  Beside 
her  lay  her  tiny  package,  unopened. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  her  mother  with  dark 
and  heavy  eyes. 

"All  right,  mommer !"  she  said.    "It's  over !" 

"What?    What's  over?" 

"All  of — of  that.    I'm  going  to  start  all  over  again." 

"You  can't,  Angie.    You  can't  undo  what's  done." 

"I  have,"  she  said  solemnly.  "I've  just  wiped  it  out.  I 
haven't  done  any  harm  to  any  one  but  myself,  and  I'm  going 
to  forget  that.  All  the  traces  of  it  are  gone.  Eddie  '11  never 
know ;  and  so  he'll  be  happy !  I  have  undone  it,  mommer ; 
it's  just  the  same  now  as  if  that  had  never  happened." 

Her  mother,  shivering,  racked  by  her  night's  anguish, 
looked  sternly  at  her. 

"That's  because  you  don't  know,"  she  said.  "You  don't 
know  yet  what  you've  done!" 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 


Mrs.  Kennedy  made  no  preparation  for  going  to  work 
that  day.  She  suffered  from  a  strange,  an  inexplicable 
malady.  She  didn't  want  to  go  to  bed.  She  sat  upright  in 
a  rocking-chair,  still  in  her  night-dress,  staring  at  the  kitchen 
wall  before  her  with  a  faint  little  frown. 

Angelica  washed  and  dressed  herself  neatly,  and  got  ready 
some  breakfast — not  very  quickly,  for  she  wasn't  accus 
tomed  to  cooking,  but  with  the  care  and  deftness  that  were 
so  natural  to  her.  It  was,  when  done,  a  daintier  and  better 
meal  than  her  mother  had  ever  served. 

"Now,  mommer!"  she  said.    "Come  on!    Sit  down!" 

"I  can't  eat,  Angelica." 

"You  can  drink  some  coffee,  anyway." 

And  she  took  her  mother  by  the  hand  arid  led  her  to  the 
table — a  poor,  frail,  barefooted  little  thing,  with  her  gray 
hair  hanging  about  her  haggard  face. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Angelica  again.     "Now,  then !" 

Her  mother  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  greedily,  and  gave  her 
familiar  little  sigh. 

"That  was  nice!"  she  said. 

Her  daughter  succeeded  in  making  her  eat  a  little  as  well. 

"Now  you  got  to  lie  down,"  she  said. 

"I  can't.    I've  got  to  clean  the  halls." 

"I'll  do  it,  mommer." 

"Nonsense,  Angelica !    You  don't  know  a  thing  about  it." 

"I  guess  I  can  learn.    Go  on,  mommer,  lie  down!" 

She  straightened  the  bed  and  patted  the  thin  little  pillow. 

"Now,  mommer,  tell  me !  How  do  you  do  it  ?  Where  do 
you  start?" 

225 


226  ANGELICA 

"Angie,  I  can't  let  you.  You're  tired  to  death,  child.  I'm 
more  used  to  it." 

But  Angelica  would  not  listen  to  her.  She  went  out, 
resolutely,  with  the  pail  and  the  cloth  and  the  scrubbing- 
brush,  to  do  for  her  mother  for  one  day  what  her  mother 
had  done  for  her  for  nineteen  years. 

It  was  not  Angelica's  disposition  to  enjoy  martyrdom. 
She  never  felt  sorry  for  herself;  she  didn't  now.  It  was 
work  which  must  be  done,  and  she  was  anxious  to  do  it 
properly.  She  was  in  that  state  of  intense  fatigue  when  one 
craves  more  and  more  physical  activity.  She  scrubbed  all 
the  stone  stairs,  mopped  the  corridor,  went  on  working  and 
working  and  thinking  and  thinking. 

She  came  down-stairs  at  one  o'clock  and  went  out  to  buy 
something  for  lunch. 

"What  is  there  to  do  this  afternoon?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "I  haven't  got  half  the 
work  to  do  in  this  place  that  I  had  in  the  old  one — only  three 
washings." 

"I  know.  Well,  mommer,  I  suppose  we'll  have  to  get 
some  more  money  from  somewhere.  I'll  go  out  and  look 
for  a  job,  I  guess." 

She  found  one  without  much  trouble.  Her  sort  of  job — 
unskilled,  transitory,  ill-paid — was  plentiful. 

"I'm  starting  in  to-morrow  morning,"  she  told  her 
mother,  when  she  came  home.  "Now,  if  there's  any  ink,  I 
guess  I'll  write  to  Eddie." 

"Why?"  asked  her  mother. 

"Well,  it  seems  he  don't  know  anything  about — what 
happened,  and  I  guess  we'll  be  married  after  all." 

"You  mean  to  say  you're  still  set  on  that,  Angie?"  cried 
her  mother.  "It's  wicked — downright  wicked — to  deceive  a 
good  man  so." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Angelica  replied.  "What  I  did  was 
bad  enough,  but  I  don't  think  it's  wicked  not  to  tell  about  it. 


ANGELICA  227 

If  you'd  been  in  prison  you  wouldn't  go  around  telling 
every  one  about  it,  would  you?" 

"That  isn't  the  same  at  all,  Angie.  I  don't  want  you  to 
tell  'every  one' ;  only  the  man  you're  going  to  marry." 

"He  wouldn't  be  the  man  I'm  going  to  marry  very  long, 
if  I  tell  him.  He'd  never  speak  to  me  again.  I  know  Eddie ! 
And  he's  too  good  to  lose,"  she  added.  "Of  course,  some 
thing  may  go  wrong,  but  I  don't  think  so.  I  think  I've  got 
him!" 

So  she  wrote : 

DEAR  EDDIE: 

I  guess  you  think  it  is  very  queer  not  hearing  from  me  for  nearly 
a  year.  I  did  not  think  I  would  write  to  you,  because  when  I 
thought  it  over  I  thought  I  better  not  marry  you.  I  thought  maybe 
we  could  not  get  on,  on  account  of  being  so  different,  but  I  have 
changed  my  mind,  and  now  I  will  if  you  still  want.  Let  me  know 
if  you  feel  the  same  about  it,  and  then  I  will  write  again  and  tell 
you  all  about  how  I  am  getting  along.  I  have  not  got  any  letters 
from  you,  because  we  moved  away  from  the  old  place,  and  I  was 
sick  a  long  time,  and  did  not  go  up  there  to  see  if  there  were  any 
letters,  and  then  when  I  got  well  and  did  go  the  woman  there  was 
very  cranky  and  said  she  gave  them  all  back  to  the  postman  because 
I  did  not  leave  any  address  behind. 

Well,  let  me  hear  how  you  feel  about  this.  ANGELICA. 

"Now!"  she  said  as  she  dropped  it  into  the  box.  "Now, 
if  only,  only  I  can  have  my  chancel" 


n 

One  might  imagine  that  her  mother  would  be  pleased  with 
the  new  and  complete  change  that  came  over  Angelica — her 
third  phase,  so  to  speak;  but  she  wasn't  This  cool,  quiet 
resolution  seemed  to  Mrs.  Kennedy  more  profoundly  im 
moral  than  all  her  daughter's  past  wildness.  It  would  be  a 
horrible  thing,  it  would  upset  all  her  universe,  if  she  were 
forced  to  see  such  guilt  as  Angelica's  going  undiscovered 
a&(J  forgotten. 


228  ANGELICA 

Even  a  sinful  life  would  have  seemed  to  her  more  hopeful, 
for  it  would  have  presupposed  a  girl  driven  to  desperation 
by  shame  and  remorse ;  but  Angelica  going  off  to  her  work  in 
the  morning,  neat  and  alert,  her  old-time  swagger  supplanted 
by  a  steely  self-assurance,  was  an  outrage.  She  was  actu 
ally  ambitious,  too;  she  didn't  seem  to  know  that  her  life 
was  ruined  and  ended.  She  studied  in  the  evening,  writing 
exercises,  learning  things  by  heart,  going  at  the  English, 
tongue,  spelling,  composition,  and  literature  as  the  books 
decreed,  fiercely  concentrated  upon  her  work.  She  wouldn't 
go  to  the  movies,  or  to  take  a  walk ;  she  wouldn't  even  talk ; 
she  just  sat  there,  with  her  books. 

Her  efforts  at  self -improvement  were  not  touching,  had 
nothing  of  stumbling  pathos  about  them.  She  was  too 
clever,  too  careful.  She  learned  to  dress  with  quiet  pre 
cision,  without  paint,  without  flamboyant  allure.  She  learned 
to  speak  better,  she  stopped  swearing,  except  under  great 
provocation;  she  even  learned  to  control  her  temper  to  a 
degree  that  alarmed  her  mother.  The  hot,  sudden  anger  was 
there — it  came  as  readily  as  ever ;  but  it  was  still  now.  She 
didn't  "fly  out."  And  all  this  disturbed  and  exasperated 
Mrs.  Kennedy.  She  had  no  sympathy  for  any  of  it. 

"Whatever  in  the  world  do  you  expect  to  do?"  she  asked 
irritably,  one  evening,  while  Angelica  sat  reading  a  paper 
book  on  etiquette. 

"I'm  going  to  be  as  good  as  the  best  of  them,"  said  An 
gelica.  "Why  shouldn't  I  be?" 

"Plenty  of  reason  why  you  shouldn't!"  said  her  mother 
tartly. 

But  the  wicked  continued  to  prosper,  until  Mrs.  Kennedy 
almost  believed  that  God  gave  no  justice. 

One  day  a  letter  came  for  Angelica.  This  startled  her 
mother,  for  they  never  got  letters. 

"It's  from  him,"  she  thought.    "Bad  news,  maybe!" 

But  it  was  postmarked  New  York;  it  couldn't  be  from 
Eddie. 


ANGELICA  229 

"Now,  whoever  in  the  world  can  be  writing  to  Angie!" 
she  thought,  alarmed  and  uneasy,  as  she  always  was  over 
the  giro's  mysterious  activities.  However  she  might  regard 
Angelica's  moral  shortcomings,  she  loved  her  only  child. 
She  knew  that  she  deserved  punishment,  but  she  would  have 
given  her  own  life  to  save  her  from  it. 

Directly  Angie  came  in  from  work  she  handed  her  the 
letter. 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  she  muttered.  "Mommer!  It's  from  her 
— the  one  thatTs  got  the  baby." 

Her  face  was  ghastly.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  hadn't 
escaped  so  easily  as  her  mother  imagined.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  she  longed  for  her  child  and  missed  it  with  immeasurable 
bitterness,  like  any  human  mother1. 

Angelica  couldn't  bear  to  open  the  letter.  For  what  other 
reason  would  Polly  write  to  her  but  to  tell  her  of  the  baby's 
illness  or  death?  She  had  warmly  urged  Angelica  to  come 
whenever  she  wished  to  see  the  child,  but  Angelica  had  re 
fused.  She  didn't  want  to  see  him  there  with  Polly.  She 
wished  to — she  must — look  upon  him  as  utterly  lost  to  her. 
Once  in  a  while  she  was  overcome  with  longing,  and  would 
telephone  simply  to  ask  after  him,  and,  reassured,  would 
resolutely  turn  her  mind  away.  But  if  he  were  really  gone, 
no  longer  in  the  world! 

She  opened  the  letter  at  last,  and  the  very  sight  of  it,  be 
fore  her  brain  had  grasped  its  meaning,  comforted  her — the 
neatly  formed  letters,  the  friendly  look  of  the  page : 

DEAR  ANGELICA: 

Dress  yourself  in  your  very  nicest  and  go  to  see  Miss  Sillon  in 
her  shop,  "Fine  Feathers,"  on  the  south  side  of  Washington  Square. 
I  spoke  to  her  about  you,  and  I  believe  there  is  a  very  good  oppor 
tunity  there  for  you.  They  want  a  milliner — some  one  to  take  a 
small  salary  and  a  share  in  the  profits.  They  are  nice  girls,  and 
you'll  enjoy  being  with  them.  I  really  think  it  is  just  what  you 
want.  Anyway,  try  it,  won't  you  ?  And  let  me  know  if  it  suits. 

Your  friend,  as  always, 

POLLY  GERALDINE. 

P.  S. — He  is  doing  splendidly. 


230  ANGELICA 

Angelica  read  the  letter  to  her  mother,  all  but  the  signa 
ture,  and  ate  her  supper  in  silence. 

"Sit  down,  mommer,"  she  said.  "I'll  wash  the  dishes.  I 
guess  I'll  lay  off  for  a  while  to-morrow  and  go  and  see  about 
this  thing." 

in 

It  was  Angelica  at  her  newest  and  best  who  walked  across 
Fourth  Street  the  next  morning.  She  had  for  a  long  time 
sternly  withheld  most  of  her  wages  from  her  mother,  who 
needed  the  money  for  vital  necessities,  and  had  bought  her 
self  a  decent  outfit,  to  go  with  her  new  soul.  She  was  plainly 
dressed,  but  no  longer  with  a  trace  of  shabbiness.  She  wore 
a  neat  dark  suit,  a  black  sailor  hat,  good  boots  and  gloves. 
Her  swagger  was  gone,  and  so  was  her  provocative  and 
insolent  glance;  she  had  a  sobriety  and  decorum  quite  be 
yond  reproach. 

She  saw  the  shop,  and  entered.  It  was  a  small  private 
house,  dilapidated  and  moribund,  fitted  out  with  purple  and 
white  striped  curtains  at  the  windows  and  a  great  sign-board 
over  the  front  gate — a  wooden  peacock,  brilliantly  colored, 
with  'Fine  Feathers'  painted  in  bold  black  letters  across  It, 
The  shop  was  what  had  once  been  a  front  parlour — a  long, 
narrow  room  with  a  marble  mantelpiece  and  an  ornate  ceil 
ing.  It  was  furnished  now,  with  great  audacity,  solely  by 
four  kitchen  chairs  painted  white,  with  round  purple  cush 
ions  on  them,  a  table  on  which  were  strewn  original  designs 
for  wraps  and  dresses  done  in  crayons,  and  a  fine  pair  of 
black  velvet  portieres  concealing  the  back  room.  Four  long 
mirrors  were  set  into  the  walls. 

The  owners  were  both  poor  and  clever.  They  knew  well 
that  this  childish  brightness  would  be  thought  artistic,  origi 
nal,  and  distinguished  by  the  greatly  desirable  bourgeoisie, 
and  that  the  more  sophisticated  would  be  amused.  As  for 
Angelica,  she  was  impressed. 


ANGELICA  231 

A  tall  young  girl  with  fluffy  red  hair  hastened  in  from  the 
back  room. 

"Yes?"  she  asked,  with  non-committal  amiability. 

"Mrs.  Geraldine  sent  me,"  said  Angelica.  "I'd  like  to  see 
Miss  Sillon,  please." 

"Oh!  I'm  Miss  Devery,  but  I'll  do.  I'm  the  partner. 
I've  heard  about  you.  Millinery,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica,  confidently. 

"Sit  down,  won't  you?  We  can  talk  it  over  a  bit.  Miss 
Sillon  will  be  in  presently.  You  see,  Miss  Sillon  and  I  just 
started  this  place  six  months  ago,  but  we're  doing  so  well 
that  we  feel  justified  in  branching  out  a  bit.  So  we  thought 
of  a  millinery  department.  We  were  speaking  of  it  to  Mrs. 
Geraldine — she's  one  of  our  oldest  customers,  you  know — 
and  she  said  she  knew  just  the  person.  She  said  you  were 
a  wonder  at  hats." 

Angelica  smiled  a  little.  She  was  surprised  and  delighted 
by  this  pretty  red-haired  girl  with  her  na'ive  air  and  babyish 
voice — a  lady,  if  ever  there  was  one,  and  yet  so  simple  and 
friendly  with  Angelica.  She  wanted  greatly  to  work  in  that 
purple  and  white  room  with  her. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Devery,  "I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do. 
We'd  let  you  have  both  the  windows,  to  display  your  hats; 
and  that's  worth  something.  Then  we'd  give  you  ten  per 
cent  of  all  the  sales  you  make,  and  provide  the  materials  as 
well.  We  have  lots  of  scraps  and  odds  and  ends;  so  you'd 
be  under  no  expense  at  all." 

"But  I'd  have  to  have  a  salary  to  start  with." 

Miss  Devery  bit  her  lip  doubtfully. 

"Well,  you  see,"  she  said  candidly,  "we're  rather  short  of 
cash.  We've  made  quite  a  bit,  but  after  we've  paid  our  liv 
ing  expenses  we  turn  it  all  back  into  the  business.  We're 
growing  fast,  and  if  you  come  in  with  us  now  you'll  really 
have  a  splendid  chance.  We  have  a  perfectly  fine  connec 
tion,  you  know — some  of  the  very  nicest  people." 


232  ANGELICA 

"But "  began  Angelica,  arid  stopped  short.  "I'd  like 

to  think  it  over,"  she  said.  "How  long  can  I  take?" 

"Why,  a  week,  if  you  wish;  but  I  hope  you'll  come. 
You're  just  the  sort  of  girl  we  want.  We  don't  commer 
cialize  the  thing.  We  want  to  keep  it  nice." 

Angelica  smiled  again  with  a  dreary  sort  of  triumph.  So 
she  had  fooled  one  of  the  nice  ones,  anyway ! 

"Of  course,"  went  on  Miss  Devery,  "if  you'd  rather,  you 
could  provide  a  little  capital  and  your  own  materials,  and 
we'd  let  you  right  in  with  us.  Miss  Sillon  would  show  you 
the  books  and  so  on." 

Angelica  had  risen.  She  could  see  her  own  reflection  in 
one  of  the  long  mirrors,  and  she  could  not  help  feeling  that 
she  really  looked  more  of  a  lady  than  the  girl  who  actually 
was  one. 

"I'll  let  you  know,"  she  said,  carefully.  She  was  fearfully 
tempted  to  try,  just  for  once,  to  talk  as  they  did.  "It's 
awfully  attractive,"  she  said.  "I'd  love  to  go  into  it  with 
you;  but  I  want  to  talk  it  over  with  mother." 

It  succeeded !  Miss  Devery  noticed  nothing  at  all  strange 
in  her  tone  or  her  words. 

"Telephone  just  as  soon  as  you  decide,  won't  you?"  she 
said. 


IV 

Mrs.  Kennedy  wasn't  in  the  flat  when  Angelica  got  home. 
She  was  up-stairs,  cleaning  a  vacant  flat,  and  thither  An 
gelica  followed  her.  She  was  scrubbing  the  pan  of  a  gas- 
stove — a  vilely  dirty  thing,  heavily  incrusted  with  grease  and 
slime,  in  which  were  embedded  dead  matches  and  bits  of 
food. 

"Mother!" 

The  unaccustomed  word  surprised  her.  She  turned  to 
look  into  Angelica's  face  smiling  down  at  her. 


ANGELICA  233 

"Mother,  will  you  support  me  for  a  while?" 

"Why,  child,  of  course!    I'll  do  whatever  I  can  for  you. 

Have  you  lost  your  job?" 

"No,  but  I'm  going  to  try  something  new.     It  may  not 

bring  in  anything  much  for  quite  a  while,  but  I  think  after 

a  time  it  '11  be  a  regular  gold-mine.     And  it's  very  nice. 

I  know  Eddie  would  like  me  to  do  it!" 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


She  hadn't  allowed  herself  to  think  about  Eddie's  reply. 
She  insisted  to  herself  that  it  would  be,  must  be,  favourable; 
but  when  the  letter  came,  when  at  last  she  held  it  in  her 
hand,  she  was  panic-stricken.  She  reverted. 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  she  murmured.  "What  if  he's  changed  his 
mind?" 

This  is  what  she  read : 

MY  DEAREST  GIRL: 

You  can't  possibly  imagine  how  I  felt  when  I  got  your  letter.  I 
was  still  in  the  hospital  where  I  had  been  for  five  months  with  a  bad 
foot,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  care  much  whether  I  ever 
went  out  of  it  again.  I  can't  explain  it  very  well,  but  there  is  some 
thing  about  the  war  and  this  filthy,  brutal  way  of  living  that  makes 
it  unbearable  to  lose  any  pleasures  or  joys  out  of  life.  You  get  to 
believe  that  nothing  matters  except  being  happy.  And  you  are 
my  happiness.  When  I  thought  I'd  lost  you,  I  didn't  care  about 
going  on.  Of  course,  there's  your  country,  and  your  family,  and 
your  ambition,  and  so  on,  but  somehow  they  don't  seem  real.  I 
thought  of  you  all  the  time.  I  wrote  and  wrote,  and  didn't  get  any 
answer.  Then  I  asked  Vincent  to  look  you  up,  but  he  wrote  that 
you'd  moved  and  he  couldn't  trace  you.  I  don't  quite  see  how  I 
could  have  gone  back  on  the  firing2line  again  if  you  hadn't  written. 
It's  bad  enough  anyway,  but  it  wouldn't  be  bearable  without  some 
sort  of  guiding  star.  Don't  think  I'm  getting  sentimental,  Angelica, 
but  you  are  that,  you  know,  to  me. 

I  hope  this  will  soon  be  over.  It's  worse  than  I  thought  it  would 
be ;  but  I'm  glad  I  came.  I  wouldn't  like  other  fellows  to  be  doing 
this  job  for  me.  But  when  I  get  home !  It  seems  like  a  vision  of 
Paradise — you  waiting  for  me,  and  my  home,  and  good  food  and  a 
nice,  clean  bed,  and  hot  water! 

I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I've  deteriorated,  that  I'm  always 
thinking  of  physical  things,  because  I'm  not.  When  you're  always 
uncomfortable,  you  can't  help  thinking  too  much  about  comfort ;  but 

234 


ANGELICA  235 

I  think  much  more  about  other  things.  I  think  a  lot  about  what  is 
the  best  way  to  use  a  life.  I  can  see  lots  of  things  I've  done  wrong. 
I  look  forward  awfully  to  making  a  fresh  start.  It  will  all  seem  so 
new,  like  being  born  again.  Everything  will  seem  remarkable  and 
interesting — all  sort  of  things  I  didn't  use  to  notice. 

And  to  think  that  there  was  a  time  when  I  used  to  think  quite 
calmly  about  being  married  to  you !  Of  course,  my  dear,  I  always 
did  look  forward  to  it  as  the  greatest  possible  happiness,  but  I 
more  or  less  took  it  for  granted — the  sort  of  happiness  a  fellow 
always  expects.  But  now,  Angelica,  it  seems  as  wonderful  and 
beautiful  and  far  off  as  heaven.  I  can't  even  really  believe  that  I'll 
see  you  ever  again.  I've  got  so  used  to  being  a  lousy,  muddy, 
hunted  animal  that  I  can't  believe  it  will  ever  end.  I  don't  even 
long  for  the  end;  it  seems  so  impossible.  I  have  a  damnable  con 
viction — an  obsession,  I  suppose  they'd  call  it — that  every  one  gets 
killed  in  the  war.  So  many  of  the  chaps  I  knew  have  gone,  often 
killed  beside  me — and  in  the  hospital,  dying  so  sickeningly !  I  can't 
help  imagining  that  every  one  in  the  world  is  dying.  So  that  the 
idea  of  coming  home  and  marrying  you  is — I  can't  describe  what 
it  is.  Really  and  literally  a  dream  of  heaven. 

Angelica,  darling,  don't  disappoint  me  again !  I  couldn't  bear  it. 
Write  to  me  faithfully,  as  often  as  possible — even  every  day.  It 
wouldn't  be  much  to  do,  for  you  who  are  at  home  and  safe  and 
comfortable. 

With  all  my  heart, 

EDDIE. 

Now  this  letter  might  have  disappointed  another  girl,  but 
not  Angelica.  She  didn't  at  all  mind  its  being  so  little  lover- 
like,  so  much  concerned  with  Eddie  and  his  feelings,  and  so 
little  concerned  with  herself.  She  was,  in  fact,  very  proud 
that  such  a  learned  and  serious  young  man  as  Eddie  should 
write  to  her  at  all.  She  was  overjoyed,  exultant,  to  see  that 
he  still  wanted  her — with  a  sort  of  humility  in  her  joy  quite 
unusual  in  her. 

"I  won't  disappoint  him  ever  again!"  she  cried.  "I'll  do 
my  very  best.  I'll  just  live  for  him!  And  if  it's  like  a 
dream  of  heaven  to  him,"  she  reflected,  "so  it  is  to  me.  I've 
suffered,  too.  It  couldn't  have  been  much  worse  for  any  one, 
anywhere.  Oh,  won't  it  be  heaven  to  be  safe — to  be  his 
wife,  and  settled  there  at  Buena  Vista,  and  rich,  and  every 
one  looking  up  to  me  ?  A  motor-car  of  my  own,  and  lovely 


236  ANGELICA 

clothes,  and  a  beautiful  room!  I'll  have  Miss  Sillon  and 
Miss  Devery  out  to  see  me." 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 

"I'm  getting1  to  look  refined,"  she  thought;  "not  factory 
any  more.  When  I  can  have  real  grand  clothes,  I'll  be 
beautiful!  Vincent  said  I  lost  heaven  when  I  stopped  lov 
ing  him,"  she  reflected.  "Well,  I'll  get  it  back  again,  with 
Eddie!" 


n 

In  spite  of  his  entreaty,  she  waited  for  more  than  a  week 
before  she  replied  to  Eddie's  letter,  for  she  wished  to  have 
something  to  tell  him.  She  spent  two  entire  evenings  over 
her  letter,  and  when  it  was  done  there  was  hardly  a  mistake 
in  it,  in  spelling,  in  grammar,  or  in  sentiment;  for  Angelica 
was  fast  learning  the  correct  way  to  feel. 

DEAR  EDDIE: 

Your  letter  was  wonderful,  and  I  could  not  write  one  nearly  so 
good,  or  so  interesting.  I  understand  how  you  feel,  but  I  do  not 
know  how  to  say  anything.  I  feel  like  that,  too,  afraid  to  expect 
any  happiness,  but  I  want  to  fight  for  it.  I  want  to  tell  God  that 
I  will  not  be  cheated,  and  that  it  has  all  got  to  come  out  right. 

I  go  to  the  movies  with  mother  whenever  there  is  a  war  picture, 
to  try  and  get  some  idea  what  it  is  like  over  there,  but  I  guess  no 
one  can.  That  is  another  thing  I  don't  dare  to  think  about — 
all  that  you  must  be  suffering.  But,  Eddie  dear,  I  will  try  my  best 
to  make  it  up  to  you  when  you  get  back. 

I  don't  go  to  the  factory  any  more,  but  I  have  a  very  nice  place 
as  a  milliner  with  two  girls  who  have  a  shop  in  Washington  Square. 
I  am  doing  nicely.  I  design  the  hats  myself  and  make  them,  and 
Miss  Sillon  says  it  will  not  be  long  before  my  hats  are  recognized 
everywhere  in  New  York.  "Angelique,"  I  call  myself  on  the  label 
I  sew  in  the  hats.  She  says  they  are  almost  too  daring,  but  very 
original. 

She  wanted  to  write  more — much  more — about  her  hats, 
but  she  knew  it  wouldn't  do.  She  was  required  to  fill  up 
the  letter  with  general  observations  and  with  her  interest 
in  Eddie,  and  she  did  so. 


ANGELICA  237 

She  was  pleased  with  this  letter,  and  yet  it  troubled  her. 
She  felt  both  mean  and  cruel.  She  knew  that  she  had  noth 
ing1  to  give  Eddie;  she  knew  that  in  every  way  she  was 
defrauding  and  injuring  him.  To  stifle  her  distress  she  had 
only  her  profound  faith  in  herself,  her  conviction  that  she 
had  obliterated  the  past  and  could  and  would  make  a  glo 
rious  future.  She  couldn't  help  contrasting  her  laboured 
and  prudent  letter  with  his  careless  candour.  Evidently  he 
didn't  care  what  he  said.  He  just  wrote  her  what  came  to 
his  mind.  He  felt  so  sure  of  her ! 

"I  haven't  really  done  him  any  harm,"  she  protested, 
lying  awake  in  the  dark.  "If  he  never  knows,  it's  just 
exactly  the  same — for  him — as  if  it  had  never  happened." 

And  still  she  knew  that  she  was  forcing  him  to  play  the 
part  he  would  have  hated  and  rejected  beyond  any  other — 
that  of  the  poor  dishonoured  fool.  She  didn't  even  love  him. 

"I'll  learn  to  love  him!"  she  cried.  "I  love  him  a  little 
bit  already." 

And  still  she  knew  how  much  she  disliked  even  the  mem 
ory  of  his  kisses. 

Sometimes  a  wave  of  sheer  terror  overcame  her. 

"No  one's  ever  done  such  a  thing,"  she  thought,  remem 
bering  all  the  stories  she  had  read.  "It  can't  be  done.  Some 
how — some  day — it  would  be  found  out.  It  always  is!" 

But  this  she  could  combat. 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  never  been  done!"  she  would  cry. 
"I'll  do  it !  I'll  marry  Eddie,  and  he'll  never  know,  and  it'll 
all  end  happily.  I'll  make  it !  I  won't  be  found  out !" 


CHAPTER  NINE 


Angelica's  new  business  suited  her  exactly.  It  absorbed 
her  mind,  and  it  trained  and  shaped  and  educated  her  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  Her  bravado  vanished  when  she 
no  longer  felt  herself  inferior;  now  that  she  was  openly 
acknowledged  to  be  a  clever  and  rising  young  woman,  she 
ha'd  no  need  of  her  old-time  self-assertion.  She  throve  in 
an  atmosphere  of  praise.  Miss  Sillon  and  Miss  Devery 
loved  her  and  her  brilliant  hats.  They  lauded  her,  petted 
her,  and  took  all  possible  means  to  advance  her  interests, 
because  they  liked  her,  and  because  her  interests  and  theirs 
were  inseperable. 

Miss  Devery,  who  was  the  artistic  member  of  the  firm, 
went  outside  in  a  purple  linen  smock  one  morning  and  put 
a  crepe  paper  hat  on  the  peacock.  As  often  as  the  rain 
soaked  it,  or  the  wind  tore  or  carried  it  off,  she  fastened  on 
another.  It  was  very  odd  and  whimsical,  and  it  suited  the 
unique  character  of  their  shop. 

This  unique  character  was  their  chief  stock  in  trade,  and 
they  both  knew  very  well  how  to  use  it  to  advantage. 

"The  awfully  chic,  exclusive  thing  has  really  been  over 
done,"  Miss  Sillon  told  Angelica.  "All  the  people  with 
money  are  crazy  now  for  anything  they  imagine  is  artistic 
and  quaint.  They  think  it  shows  that  they're  artistic  to 
like  such  things;  and  just  now,  of  course,  it's  the  thing  to 
be  artistic." 

She  was  a  complete  contrast  to  the  dimpled,  red-haired 
Miss  Devery,  with  her  air  of  polite  amusement.  She  was 

238 


ANGELICA  239 

a  short,  energetic,  very  dark  little  body,  lively,  talkative, 
and  witty. 

"I'm  a  perfect  dressmaker,"  she  told  Angelica.  "God 
made  me  so.  Just  to  look  at  me  makes  people  turn  red  with 
shame  and  make  up  their  minds  on  the  spot  to  have  some 
thing  nice  and  new  and  trim." 

Angelica  acknowledged  that  never  had  she  seen  a  better- 
dressed  woman,  or  a  neater  one. 

"I  dye  my  hair  and  lace  as  tight  as  I  dare,"  Miss  Sillon 
continued,  "but  I  do  it  with  pride  and  vainglory.  I  boldly 
call  it  a  duty.  I  tell  these  silly  women  it's  the  most  impor 
tant  thing  in  life  to  keep  oneself  looking  one's  best,  and 
they  always  agree.  Not  one  of  them  ever  had  the  sense  to 
inquire  what  it's  done  for  me.  Here  I've  been  looking  my 
best  for  forty  years,  and  look  at  me,  still  digging  away  for  a 
living,  while  these  wretched,  slovenly  little  chits  with  holes 
in  their  stockings  and  all  their  buttons  off  are  settled  down 
with  fine  husbands  and  babies  and  everything  else  they 
want!  Look  at  Devery — sloppy  kid!  She's  never  without 
a  man  hanging  about  after  her." 

Devery  smiled. 

"They're  mostly  bad  ones,"  she  said.  "Dishonourable  in 
tentions,  sometimes,  but  generally  no  intentions  at  all.  I 
don't  get  no  'forrader/  Sillon.  But  this  Angelique — she's 
the  one !  She's  just  made  for  a  millionaire's  bride." 

Miss  Sillon  turned  to  stare  at  her. 

"Devery,"  she  said  suddenly,  "she's  not  quaint  enough. 
Get  to  work  and  make  her  quaint !" 

"That  I  can't  do.  She's  not  built  along  quaint  lines ;  but 
I'll  make  her  bizarre." 

So  Miss  Devery  set  to  work.  She  designed  and  made 
for  Angelica  an  extraordinary  dress  of  dark  red  jersey  cloth 
that  fitted  her  like  a  snake-skin,  as  she  said.  It  was  entirely 
plain  arid  severe,  with  long  sleeves  and  a  skirt  reaching  to 
her  ankles.  It  made  her  look  lean,  tall,  and  savage.  Then 
she  parted  her  hair  in  the  middle  and  knotted  it  low  on  her 


240  ANGELICA 

neck,  hung  big  gold  earrings  in  her  ears,  and  around  her 
neck  a  string  of  cloudy  pale-green  beads  reaching  to  her 
knees.  When  all  this  was  done,  she  called  in  Miss  Sillon. 

"Now!"  she  said.    "What,  eh?" 

"Barbaric,"  said  Miss  Sillon;  "but  Lord,  how  attractive 
the  creature  is!  Seriously,  though,"  she  added,  "do  you 
think  she  fits  in  with  our  nice  little  quaintness  ?  She's  posi 
tively  terrible!" 

"A  new  thing  in  milliners,"  said  Miss  Devery.  "Sillon, 
I'm  proud!  She's  my  masterpiece." 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Sillon.  "We  won't  touch  her. 
She  shall  stand  as  you  have  made  her;  but,  Angelique,  my 
child,  how  you  will  have  to  design  to  keep  up  with  your 
appearance !" 

"I  can  do  it,"  said  Angelica  firmly.  "I've  got  some  fine 
ideas." 

For  what  had  she  been  doing  of  late  but  visiting  the 
Public  Library  and  studying  the  lives  of  all  of  Eddie's  mag 
nificent  women  whom  she  could  remember,  and,  from  their 
portraits,  gleaning  the  suggestions  upon  which  she  later 
worked  ? 

She  was  supremely  happy  at  her  work.  To  sit  sewing 
with  Miss  Devery  and  Miss  Sillon  all  the  morning,  listening 
to  their  bright  and  jolly  talk,  and  entering  into  it,  was 
unfailing  delight.  They  quite  frankly  admired  her  brains 
and  her  beauty,  and  treated  her  exactly  as  one  of  them 
selves.  If  they  saw  any  difference,  anything  inferior  in, 
her,  they  concealed  it. 

Angelica  felt  that  they  didn't  know,  that  they  imagined 
her  to  be  of  the  same  class  as  themselves.  It  didn't  occur 
to  her  that  they  didn't  care;  that  so  long  as  she  behaved 
herself  with  amiability  and  good  sense,  and  was  of  value  in 
their  business,  they  were  in  no  way  concerned  about  her 
grammar  or  her  table  manners.  She  imagined  that  they 
were  always  looking  for  signs  of  good  breeding,  signs  of 
bad  breeding,  little  tricks  she  hadn't  learned  yet.  She  used 


ANGELICA  241 

to  read  all  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  women's  magazines, 
and  she  often  discovered,  to  her  deep  distress,  that  she  had 
been  doing  horrible  things,  even  in  the  presence  of  Devery 
and  Sillon.  She  had,  for  instance,  put  on  her  gloves  in 
the  street;  she  had  said  "phone"  and  "auto,"  and  still  they 
remained  friendly. 

They  were  a  type  entirely  novel  to  her ;  she  had  not  even 
read  of  their  sort.  Well-born  and  well-educated  English 
women,  they  had  knocked  about  the  world  to  an  amazing 
extent.  There  was  very  little  they  didn't  know,  although 
there  was  a  very  great  deal  they  chose  to  ignore  in  life. 

Miss  Devery  was  the  youngest  in  a  family  of  nine — 
children  of  a  poor  clergyman  in  the  south  of  England.  She 
had  begun  her  career  as  a  governess  in  a  French  family. 
Leaving  that,  she  had  drifted  about  in  Paris,  studied  draw 
ing  a  little,  and  given  English  lessons,  always  charming  and 
gay  and  perfectly  at  home.  Then  she  had  gone  to  a  mar 
ried  brother  in  Australia,  and  after  a  few  years  of  that, 
helping  his  wife  with  her  babies  on  their  sheep-farm,  she 
had  followed  the  commands  of  her  own  sweet  and  careless 
heart  and  gone  to  America.  And  here  she  was,  at  twenty- 
six,  quite  alone  in  the  world,  half-forgotten  by  her  people 
at  home,  who  were  rather  fond  of  her,  but  couldn't  keep 
her  in  mind. 

Miss  Sillon  was  different.  Her  father  was  a  doctor 
who  had  ruined  himself  with  drink,  and  she  had  had  mon 
strous  responsibilities  and  cares  upon  her  shoulders  ever 
since  childhood,  when  her  mother  had  died.  God  knows 
what  she  hadn't  tried,  to  earn  her  honest  bread.  She  had 
been  a  children's  nurse  in  London,  stewardess  on  a  South 
American  ship,  librarian  in  a  Canadian  city ;  she  had  worked 
in  a  newspaper  office  and  in  a  bakery,  she  had  taught  music 
in  a  suburban  school.  She  was  also  entirely  alone  on  earth, 
but  it  didn't  trouble  her. 

Both  she  arid  Miss  Devery  would  have  been  able  to  pick 


242  ANGELICA 

up  a  living  in  any  part  of  the  civilized  world.  They  were 
attached  to  each  other,  without  being  quite  aware  of  their 
affection.  They  had  met  one  day  at  a  cheap  lunch-room,  and 
had  rushed  together  like  two  morsels  of  quicksilver.  Why 
not?  They  were  more  than  harmonious;  they  were  in  es 
sence  identical. 


u 

How  bitterly  Mrs.  Kennedy  missed  her  wayward  and 
troublesome  child,  who  had  ordered  her  about  and  sworn  at 
her,  and  so  vehemently  kissed  her!  This  neat  young 
woman,  busy  at  her  books  in  the  kitchen  every  evening, 
always  up  and  dressed  at  the  right  time  in  the  morning,  was 
a  stranger,  was  in  no  way  hers.  She  would  sit  in  the  rock 
ing-chair — after  the  kitchen  was  clean  and  tidy — and  take 
up  the  newspaper  Angelica  had  brought  in,  or  perhaps  a 
magazine,  and  pretend  to  read;  but  she  never  could.  She 
had  no  habit  of  reading.  Her  great  need  was  to  talk. 

She  would  look  at  her  daughter,  and  rock  and  sigh.  A 
weary  world,  where  even  rest  had  lost  its  beauty! 

There  were  sometimes  evenings  when  Miss  Sillon  and 
Miss  Devery  invited  Angelica  to  go  with  them  to  one  of 
the  little  Italian  restaurants  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  this 
case  Angelica  was  always  punctilious  to  telephone  to  her 
mother,  and  she  was  never  out  later  than  ten,  so  that  it 
didn't  occur  to  her  to  pity  the  wretched  woman. 

She  didn't  imagine  how  terrible  those  evenings  were  to 
Mrs.  Kennedy,  how  she  groped  about  the  kitchen,  blinded 
by  tears,  setting  out  her  tiny  meal,  finding  relief  in  loud 
sobs  like  hiccoughs.  She  saw  that  something  was  the  mat 
ter  with  her  mother,  but  she  fancied  that  it  was  age,  ill 
health,  poverty,  years  of  hardship. 

It  was  none  of  these  pains  which  so  grievously  afflicted 


ANGELICA  243 

Mrs.  Kennedy.  It  was  because  she  was  being  left  behind. 
She  who  had  all  her  life  feared  and  foreseen  that  she  would 
be  obliged  to  die  and  leave  her  beloved  child,  now  saw  this 
child — as  she  had  known  her — quite  dead  arid  gone,  and 
herself  left  desolate. 


CHAPTER  TEN 


There  was  one  particular  day — a  sort  of  seventh  wave 
in  her  steady  tide  of  success — that  Angelica  always  remem 
bered.  To  begin  with,  when  she  reached  Fine  Feathers, 
there  was  what  Miss  Devery  had  promised  her  should  be 
there — 'ANGELIQUE,'  in  purple  letters  across  the  two  front 
windows.  She  stopped  in  the  street  to  admire  it,  in  delight, 
almost  in  awe.  So  far  had  she  come,  with  such  celerity — 
she,  the  one-time  factory  worker!  It  hardly  seemed  pos 
sible  ! 

She  lingered  to  think  of  her  present  magic  life,  so  full 
of  delights  and  satisfactions;  her  days  filled  with  this  work 
that  she  loved,  handling  the  silks,  the  satins,  the  velvets,  the 
plumes,  the  rhinestones,  all  the  rich  and  vivid  things  she  so 
adored;  the  chatter  of  Devery  and  Sillon,  which  never 
failed  to  entertain  her;  the  very  feeling  of  being  an  inde 
pendent  and  promising  young  business  woman,  with  an  ac 
count  well  started  in  a  savings-bank.  She  thought  of  the 
charmed  evenings  she  sometimes  spent  with  her  partners 
— dinner  at  a  near-by  table  d'hote,  and  then  a  seat  in  the 
second  balcony,  to  see  some  play  which  they  had  selected. 
She  thought  of  those  long,  quiet  evenings  of  study  at  home, 
in  the  tidy  kitchen,  with  the  clock  that  ticked  so  loudly 
on  the  tin  tubs. 

She  was  able  now  to  give  her  mother  a  respectable  sum 
every  week.  She  was,  in  fact,  rapidly  becoming  the  most 
important  member  of  the  'Fine  Feathers'  establishment,  and 
she  had  some  time  ago  entered  into  a  new  and  far  more 
advantageous  arrangement  with  Miss  Sillon.  Devery  and 

244 


ANGELICA  245 

Sillon  were  clever  and  good  workwomen,  and  they  had  built 
up  a  nice  little  business  for  themselves;  but  Angelica  was 
something  beyond  that — she  was  the  one  person  especially 
adapted  at  that  instant  of  time  to  design  hats  which  would 
superlatively  please  the  women  of  that  particular  city. 

She  catered  to  women  with  money,  of  course.  She  raised 
her  prices  fantastically;  and  when  women  came  in,  shame 
faced  and  apologetic  because  of  the  fierce  denunciations  of 
the  war  posters  they  saw  outside,  she  knew  just  what  to  say. 

"Yes,  madam,"  she  agreed.  "A  hundred  and  fifty  dol 
lars  is  a  large  price  for  a  simple  little  hat.  Of  course  you 
can  get  some  sort  of  thing  for  ten."  She  who  not  so  long 
ago  had  been  used  to  buy  one  for  a  dollar  and  trim  it  with 
all  sorts  of  little  scraps!  "But  it's  much  more  economical 
to  get  one  really  good  one,  that  will  keep  its  style  until  it's 
worn  out,  than  half  a  dozen  cheaper  ones." 

None  of  her  customers  had  yet  pointed  out  that  one  could 
buy  fifteen  cheaper  hats  for  this  price,  which,  allowing  three 
months  for  the  season,  would  require  of  each  hat  less  than 
a  week's  endurance.  Every  one  who  came  to  her  really 
wished  to  pay  too  much  for  a  hat.  They  all  knew,  of  course, 
that  the  bit  of  fur  and  lace  and  satin  she  gave  them  didn't 
cost  one-fifth  of  the  price,  but  they  paid  the  surplus  for  the 
style — that  Angelique  style. 

She  went  into  the  back  parlour,  where  Sillon  and  Devery 
were  draping  a  collapsible  form  in  a  green  tulle. 

"Hello !"  they  both  said,  cheerfully. 

"Wouldn't  you  know  this  dress  was  for  a  fat  woman — 
or  should  I  say,  a  well-rounded  figure?"  said  Devery. 
"They're  all  wild  about  green,  the  big  ones.  I  wonder 
why?" 

"Congratulate  her!"  said  Sillon.  "Angelica,  tell  her  how 
nice  your  name  looks  out  there.  There  she  was,  all  Sunday 
afternoon,  painting  it  and  talking  about  your  greatness  and 
your  coming  rise  to  fame  and  fortune." 

Angelica  sat  down. 


246  ANGELICA 

"It's  lovely,"  she  said.  "It  makes  me  as  happy  as  can 
be  to  see  it  there,  like  that ;  but  I've  been  thinking — isn't  it 
all  queer,  and  silly? — about  their  saying  my  hats  are  so 
becoming,  and  all  that.  Why,  they  could  get  lots  of  things 
that  really  suited  them  better  for  almost  nothing!  Do  you 
know  what  I  think  it  is  ?  I  think  it's  because  when  I  make 
'em  pay  so  much  they  take  more  pains  in  putting  the  things 
on,  and  that's  why  they  look  better.  They  dress  their  hair 
so  carefully,  and  try  to  have  everything — harmonious." 

"That's  a  trade  secret,"  said  Sillon.  "It  isn't  at  all  the 
thing  to  say.  Our  line  is,  'Of  course,  if  you  want  anything 
really  good,  you've  got  to  pay  for  it.'  Stick  to  that, 
Angelique !" 

"Down  with  the  rich!"  said  Devery.  "Bleed  them  white 
and  drain  them  dry !" 

"My  father  was  a  Socialist,"  said  Angelica,  with  calm 
assurance.  She  had  no  need  to  add,  and  they  had  no  need 
to  know,  that  he  had  been  a  Socialist  barber;  nor  was  she 
yet  advanced  enough  not  to  avoid,  with  ridiculous  shame, 
her  Italian  blood.  "Mother  says  he  was  specially  furious 
at  women  who  spent  a  lot  on  clothes." 

This  was  another  block  in  the  edifice  she  was  painfully 
erecting.  She  was  creating  for  herself  a  past  and  an  envi 
ronment  which,  without  being  extravagantly  false,  should 
yet  be  in  keeping  with  what  she  intended  to  become — a 
foundation  for  her  coming  greatness.  She  often  mentioned, 
casually,  her  father  and  her  mother  and  her  Scotch  grand 
parents.  She  admitted  that  she  and  her  mother  were  poor, 
but  she  suggested  an  admirable  and  distinguished  poorness. 
She  had  actually  got  so  far  as  to  indicate,  with  rare  deli 
cacy,  that  her  being  in  business  was  a  distress  to  her  old- 
fashioned  mother. 

All  through  that  day  there  was  the  same  elating  and  in 
toxicating  success.  All  the  customers  who  came  in  were 
satisfied,  praised  her,  and  paid  her  money.  Nothing  went 
wrong. 


ANGELICA  247 

At  lunch-time  Sillon  made  cocoa  on  the  gas-stove  in  the 
pantry  off  the  back  parlour,  and  Devery  cooked  spaghetti. 
And  for  the  first  time  they  took  her  up  into  the  little  bed 
room  they  had  on  the  floor  above,  and  showed  her  some  of 
their  belongings — photographs  of  uncles,  brothers,  cousins. 
Sillon  had  a  stuffed  cobra  and  a  thrilling  tale  about  it,  arid 
Devery  some  studies  she  had  made  in  her  Paris  days. 

Then  they  all  went  into  the  street,  to  look  again  at  the 
"ANGELIQUE";  lingering  in  the  October  brightness,  the 
wind  blowing  their  skirts,  their  hair,  making  them  frolic 
some  and  gay. 

"I  hate  work !"  said  Devery,  stretching  up  her  thin  arms, 
while  her  purple  smock  whipped  about  her  lean,  straight 
torso  in  classic  folds. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?"  asked  Angelica. 

"Just  live — like  cats,  without  any  aim.  I'd  never  accom 
plish  anything.  Just  as  soon  as  you  do  accomplish  anything, 
you  see  that  it  wasn't  worth  doing.  What  is?" 

"Devery,  you're  morbid  and  hypocritical,"  said  Sillon. 
"You  don't  mean  that.  Besides,  cats  don't  feel  like  that, 
my  child.  When  they've  caught  a  mouse,  they  feel  that  it 
was  very  much  worth  doing." 

"Oh,  well,  so  do  I !  I  think  it's  worth  while  to  catch  my 
meals,  somehow.  Angelica,  what  an  industrious  soul  you 
are!  I  don't  believe  you'd  enjoy  being  idle." 

"I'd  be  miserable  if  I  didn't  think  I  was  getting  for 
ward." 

"How  did  we  get  such  a  paragon?"  asked  Sillon. 

"Suppose  we  go  out  to  dinner?"  suggested  Devery  sud 
denly.  "Early,  and  then  to  the  movies?" 

"I'll  telephone  to  mother  first,"  said  Angelica,  "to  see  \t 
it  will  be  all  right  if  I  don't  go  home." 

A  punctilious  and  Eddie-like  form,  and  nothing  more. 

"Mother!"  she  began.    "I  won't  be  home  for  dinner." 

"Angie!"  came  the  very  tremulous  voice  of  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy,  always  distressed  at  the  telephone.  "Better  come  home 


248  ANGELICA 

as  early  as  you  can.  There's  a  lady  here  to  see  you — Mrs. 
Russell." 

Angelica  was  shocked,  terrified. 

"Something's  happened  to  Eddie!"  she  thought  at  first. 
And  then  came  an  idea  that  turned  her  cold  with  fright. 
"They've  found  out!  She  knows!  She's  come  to  tell  me 
what  she  thinks  of  me!" 


ii 

Nothing  of  the  sort,  however.  Mrs.  Russell  sat  there, 
waiting,  all  smiles  and  affability,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
inviting  Angelica  to  visit  Buena  Vista.  She  had  had  a  letter 
from  Eddie,  in  which  he  had  rather  severely  requested  her 
to  show  all  due  civility  to  his  future  wife. 

"He  really  means  it!"  she  had  said  to  her  husband.  "I 
hoped  he'd  forgotten.  I  really  thought  the  thing  had  blown 
over.  Beastly,  fsn't  it?  Imagine  her  here!" 

"It  doesn't  frighten  me,"  Dr.  Russell  said  jauntily. 

"Satyr!"  she  said.  "You  can't  be  trusted  out  of  my 
sight!" 

And  both  he  and  she  were  pleased  and  proud  of  his  senile 
impudence. 

Mrs.  Russell  had  been  chatting  with — or  perhaps  to — 
Mrs.  Kennedy  for  a  long  time,  about  God  knows  what — the 
war,  for  one  thing.  Their  views  were  very  dissimilar ;  Mrs. 
Kennedy  hadn't  a  trace  of  patriotism.  She  maintained  that 
it  was  a  bad  thing  to  kill  so  many  young  men,  no  matter 
why  it  was  done.  She  wasn't  interested  in  German  perfidy. 
She  only  hoped  it  would  soon  be  over,  no  matter  how.  It 
wouldn't  make  any  difference  who  won,  she  said. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  under  German  rule,"  demanded 
Mrs.  Russell,  "and  have  some  brutal  Prussian  officer  swear 
ing  at  you  and  ill-treating  you?" 

"I  don't  believe  officers  would  ever  bother  about  me, 


ANGELICA  249 

American  or  German,"  she  replied.  "What  would  they  be 
doing,  hanging  around  where  I  was  working?  No,  ma'am. 
Poor  people  haven't  got  anything  to  lose.  They  don't  feel 
the  same  about  their  country ;  I  dare  say  because  they  don't 
own  any  of  it.  Of  course,  if  those  Germans  were  to  come 
here,  they'd  very  likely  take  away  your  house  and  your 
jewelry  and  so  on;  but  they  wouldn't  be  likely  to  trouble 
me." 

"But  your  daughter?  She's  a  very  beautiful  girl,  you 
know.  How  would  you  like  some  unspeakable  Hun  to  in 
sult  her — or  worse?" 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  silent.  She  felt  in  her  heart  that 
nothing  much  worse  than  what  had  happened  could  ever 
happen  to  her  child.  She  simply  listened  to  her  visitor's 
accounts  of  outrages  with  decent,  womanly  interest. 

She  was  included  in  Mrs.  Russell's  invitation  to  Angelica 
to  spend  a  week-end  at  Buena  Vista,  but  she  refused,  as  she 
was  obviously  intended  to  do. 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  she  said.     "I  haven't  the  time." 

"Why  don't  you  go,  mother?"  Angelica  asked  her,  out 
of  curiosity,  when  they  were  alone  again.  "I  should  think 
you'd  like  to  make  a  visit  in  a  fine  house  like  that.  And  it's 
going  to  be  mine  some  day !" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "I  don't  believe 
the  Almighty  would  allow  such  a  thing.  No,  Angelica, 
there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip." 

"Not  when  your  hand's  steady." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  a  little  bewildered  at  having  her  time- 
honoured  maxim  treated  imaginatively. 

"Even  then,"  she  said,  after  an  instant,  "some  one  can 
come  behind  and  give  you  a  shove;  or  the  Almighty  can 
interfere." 

Angelica,  at  th«  zenith  of  her  triumph,  invited  guest  of 
Mrs.  Russell,  publicly  acknowledged  as  Eddie's  betrothed, 
smiled. 

"He  won't!"  she  said.    "He's  on  my  side!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

So  behold  Angelica  returning  to  Buena  Vista  in  this  quite 
new  role,  coming  up  from  the  station  in  a  taxi,  if  you  please. 
She  was  thinking  all  the  way  of  her  last  visit,  of  that  be 
draggled  and  desperate  creature  that  had  been  herself. 

"I've  won !"  she  said.  "I've  won!  All  alone — everything 
against  me — and  still  I've  won!" 

She  stepped  out,  and  paid  the  driver  with  perfect  assur 
ance.  She  wasn't  really  poor  now,  and  she  could,  with  per 
fect  propriety,  afford  a  cab  now  and  then. 

She  knew  that  she  was  late,  but  she  was  conscious  of 
blamelessness.  There  had  been  a  difficult  customer  who 
couldn't  be  left,  and  who,  properly  handled,  had  bought  two 
outrageously  dear  hats.  She  was,  in  fact,  very  proud  of 
being  a  business  woman  who  couldn't  help  being  late. 

She  had  expected  that  the  family  would  be  at  dinner, 
for  she  couldn't  quite  believe  that  they  would  wait  for  her. 
She  didn't  expect  anything  more  than  decent  tolerance;  she 
didn't  in  the  least  resent  the  trace  of  condescension  in  Mrs. 
Russell's  manner.  She  couldn't  fool  Mrs.  Russell  with 
conservative  Scottish  grandparents  or  an  old-fashioned 
mother.  Mrs.  Russell  knew. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  dining-room,  so  she  went  up  on 
to  the  piazza,  and  looked  into  the  library  window,  for  there 
was  a  blaze  of  light  coming  from  there. 

And  there  they  all  were,  sitting  about  a  table,  playing 
cards.  Unconsciously,  involuntarily,  her  eyes  sought  and 
rested  upon  Vincent  first  of  all.  He  sat  in  profile  toward 
her,  just  the  same  as  ever,  handsome,  bold,  with  his  look  of 
vigour  and  zest.  All  that  had  happened  was  nothing  but  an 

250 


ANGELICA  251 

episode  to  him;  hadn't  even  ruffled  him.  She  couldn't  bear 
to  look  at  him  any  more. 

Opposite  him  sat  the  doctor;  facing  the  window,  Mrs. 
Russell,  and,  with  his  back  to  Angelica,  a  strange  young 
man  in  a  tweed  suit  very  much  too  big  for  him.  Wasn't 
it  a  suit  Vincent  used  to  wear? 

"Now  who's  that?"  she  wondered. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Russell  flung  down  her  cards  with  a  slap. 

"Oh,  you  chump!"  she  cried.  "It's  no  use.  You'll  never 
be  any  good!" 

An  aggrieved  voice,  which  Angelica  recognized  at  once, 
answered : 

"Well,  what  of  it  ?  I  never  said  I  wanted  to  play,  did  I  ? 
You  said  I  had  to  learn,  to  make  it  four.  Well,  then,  I 
can't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it !" 

"Courtland  in  there,  playing  cards  with  them!"  thought 
Angelica.  "What  would  Eddie  say?" 

The  doctor  got  up  and  stretched. 

"What  of  dinner,  Marian?"  he  asked  his  wife  airily. 

"I'll  see,"  she  said,  and  went  briskly  out  of  the  room. 

Angelica  rang  the  bell,  and  Courtland  came  to  admit  her. 

"Hello!"  he  said.     "What  do  you  want?" 

She  repressed  the  too  ready  answer  that  was  at  the  tip 
of  her  tongue,  and  said,  with  dignity: 

"Mrs.  Russell  expects  me." 

"Well,  she's  in  the  kitchen,"  said  Courtland,  in  conver 
sational  tone.  "She  helps  Annie  now  while " 

"All  right!"  said  Angelica.     "I'll  go  down." 

She  had  reached  the  dark  passage  at  the  foot  of  the 
kitchen  stairs  when  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  arrested  her. 

"Angelica!"  said  Vincent's  voice.  "What  are  you  doing 
here?  Go  away!  I'll  send  you  money — I  swear  I  will! 
Only  go  away!  You  won't  get  anything  out  of  me  by 
hounding  me  this  way." 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  get  money  out  of  you.  I  don't 
expect  anything  more  from  you." 


252  ANGELICA 

He  couldn't  see  her  face,  but  her  voice  was  steady  and 
quiet.  He  grew  yet  more  alarmed. 

"What  did  you  come  here  for?     What  do  you  want?" 

"It's  none  of  your  business,"  she  said  slowly. 

She  was  struggling  with  a  terrible  fury  against  him — 
this  careless  young  man  who  was  living  so  well  without  her. 
She  longed  to  let  herself  go,  to  turn  on  him  with  a  torrent 
of  abuse,  to  swear  at  him,  shriek  at  him;  but  she  must  not. 
She  dared  not  antagonize  him.  He,  too,  had  a  temper,  and, 
if  he  lost  it,  God  only  knew  what  irreparable  harm  he  might 
do  her.  She  had  now,  and  always,  either  to  propitiate  him  or 
to  frighten  him;  by  some  means  to  make  him  hold  his 
tongue. 

Vincent's  arm  tightened  on  Angelica's  shoulder. 

"You've  got  to  tell  me!"  he  said.  "I'll  have  no  more  of 
your  damned  nonsense.  What  do  you  want  here?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  stood  motionless  in  the  dark. 

"Tell  me!"  he  said  fiercely.  "What  do  you  expect  to  get 
here?" 

Still  she  was  silent. 

"You  answer  me,"  he  hissed,  "or  I'll " 

She  laughed. 

"You'll  wlwi?"  she  asked  contemptuously.  "Throw  me 
down  the  stairs?  Choke  me?" 

He  released  her. 

"You  damnable  woman!"  he  said.  "You've  some  out 
rageous  scheme,  I  know;  but  you'll  get  nothing  out  of  me. 
Nothing!  Not  a  penny!" 

"I  don't  suppose  I  will !"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  as  she 
turned  away  and  went  on  into  the  kitchen. 

There,  on  a  high  stool  before  the  table,  sat  Mrs.  Russell, 
wearing  an  apron  and,  unaccountably,  a  little  housemaid's 
cap.  Her  great  feet  were  twisted  about  the  stool,  and  she 
was  bent  forward  intently  over  the  salad  she  was  mixing. 
Annie  was  at  the  stove,  stirring,  tasting,  lifting  covers, 


ANGELICA  253 

peering  into  the  oven,  and  listening,  with  an  air  of  com 
plete  incredulity,  to  her  mistress. 

"My  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Russell,  catching  sight  of  An 
gelica.  "How  nice!" 

She  had,  to  tell  the  truth,  quite  forgotten  that  she  had 
invited  her. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  late "  Angelica  began. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  We're  late  too,"  she  answered.  "I 
help  Annie  every  evening  now.  We  haven't  any  cook — only 
Annie  and  that  nice  little  Molly,  and  a  woman  who  comes 
in  by  the  day.  War  economy!  But  I  really  rather  like  it, 
and  Annie  has  taught  me  so  much!" 

She  looked  at  Annie  with  an  ingratiating  smile — of  which 
Annie  took  not  the  slightest  notice. 

"After  all,"  she  went  on,  "I  suppose  we  really  ought  to 
know  how  to  cook — all  of  us  women,  shouldn't  we?  The 

men  do  their  part,  so  nobly,  going  off  to  fight  and " 

She  stopped,  suddenly  bored  with  her  subject.  "So  you  see !" 
she  said  inanely,  smiling  again. 

Angelica  looked  about  the  enormous  kitchen,  so  spotless, 
so  brightly  lit,  so  marvelously  equipped. 

"It's  a  nice  place  to  work  in,"  she  said.  "See  here! 
Won't  you  teach  me?  I'd  like  to  learn." 

Annie  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  highly  displeased  ex 
pression.  She  didn't  understand  this  return  of  Angelica, 
and  Mrs.  Russell's  great  friendliness  toward  her;  and  no 
one  explained  anything. 

"Of  course  we  will,  my  dear!  You  ought  to  learn! 
Let's  see.  What  can  she  do,  Annie?" 

"Nothing,  ma'am,"  said  Annie  firmly.  "It's  all  done  and 
ready  to  serve." 

"Nonsense!  It  isn't.  I  know  it  isn't.  Let's  see.  My 
dear,  I'll  show  you  how  to  do  a  spinach  puree.  It's  deli 
cious,  and  frightfully  good  for  the  blood.  We're  all  eating 
spinach  almost  every  night  now.  Watch  me!" 

Angelica  was  hungry  and  weary,  but  she  profited  to  the 


254  ANGELICA 

full  by  this  novel  lesson  in  her  great  course  of  preparation. 
She  watched,  she  questioned,  she  tried  her  own  hand  at  it. 

Mrs.  Russell  praised  her. 

"You're  very  quick!"  she  said.  "Now  we'll  help  Annie 
to  put  the  dishes  on  the  dumb-waiter;  then  we've  just  half  a 
minute  to  wash  and  brush  up." 

She  led  the  way  to  her  room,  lively,  cheerful,  almost 
affectionate;  and  although  Angelica  knew  how  very  uncer 
tain  and  shallow  this  good-humour  was,  nevertheless  it 
helped  her. 

She  had  decided  upon  a  step  -which  dismayed  her.  She 
had  decided  to  talk  to  Vincent — to  reason  with  him,  to 
threaten  or  to  cajole  him.  He  was  the  one  danger,  the 
one  person  she  had  to  dread.  No  matter  how  carefully  she 
went,  he  could  in  an  instant  destroy  all  that  she  had  built 
up;  he  could  really  ruin  her.  She  had  been  trying  for  a  long 
time  to  devise  some  method  for  ensuring  his  silence,  for 
gaining  a  little  security.  She  had  begun  and  torn  up  more 
than  one  letter.  Now  that  they  were  once  more  under  the 
same  roof,  she  felt  it  a  unique  opportunity  which  she  was 
too  brave  to  shirk.  She  couldn't  go  on,  never  feeling  sure, 
never  knowing  what  he  would  do,  what  he  had  done. 

She  was  startled  to  find  Courtland  sitting  at  the  dinner- 
table;  but  as  the  others  took  him  as  a  matter  of  course,  she 
showed  no  surprise,  although  she  was  not  at  all  pleased  to 
be  seated  next  to  him. 

The  doctor  had  an  evening  paper. 

"The  news,"  he  said,  "isn't  good — not  in  Eddie's  section. 
He's  going  to  be  just  in  the  center  of  the  line  to  oppose  the 
next  big  drive." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  his  wife.  "You  don't  know  where 
he  is,  or  where  the  next  drive  is  coming.  Only  the  stuff 
you  read  in  the  papers !" 

"I  use  my  brains,  and  I  put  two  and  two  together " 

"He  doesn't  know  himself  where  he  is,"  said  Vincent. 
"Most  of  the  chaps  don't.  They're  like  driven  sheep." 


ANGELICA  255 

"Of  course  they  know!"  said  Mrs.  Russell.  "You  don't 
suppose  they're  blindfolded,  do  you?" 

A  loud  and  violent  discussion  followed,  all  three  of  them 
talking  at  once,  under  cover  of  which  Angelica  addressed 
her  neighbour. 

"What  are  you  doing  up  here?" 

"Just  what  you're  doin',"  replied  Courtland.  "Eatin' 
my  dinner." 

She  had  no  opportunity  to  say  more  to  him,  for  Mrs. 
Russell  peremptorily  ordered  him  to  fetch  the  car,  and, 
after  gulping  down  his  pudding  in  sullen  resentment,  he  left 
the  table. 

"I've  got  to  take  Vincent  to  the  Country  Club,"  she  said. 
"He's  going  to  sing  'Sambre  et  Meuse'  at  an  entertainment 
there.  My  clear,  you  should  hear  him.  Of  course  we're  all 
supposed  to  be  strictly  neutral,  and  all  that,  but  up  there,  at 
the  club,  the  pretense  is  frightfully  thin.  All  really  decent 
people,  you  know.  We  have  a  dear  little  wounded  Belgian 
officer  who's  going  to  speak;  but  I've  heard  him  simply  hun 
dreds  of  times,  so  I  won't  wait.  I'll  be  home  in  half  an  hour. 
Make  yourself  at  home,  won't  you?" 

Angelica  reassured  her  light-hearted  hostess  that  she 
would  be  altogether  happy  and  comfortable  until  her  return, 
and,  after  the  motor-car  had  gone,  wandered  back  into  the 
library,  looking  for  a  book. 

But  she  couldn't  read.  She  began  to  contemplate  her 
coming  interview  with  Vincent. 

She  could  not  trust  him  for  an  instant.  She  never  knew 
when  he  would  be  moved  to  tell  the  entire  story  to  Eddie, 
or  to  his  mother,  or  to  any  one  else.  If  he  were  attacked 
by  one  of  his  fits  of  remorse,  he  would  be  almost  certain 
to  do  so.  She  held  him  only  by  a  threat  made  in  a  mood 
of  supreme  passion,  which  she  could  never  recapture. 

Despair  crept  over  her.  This  step  along  her  stony  path 
seemed  too  difficult.  She  had  no  violent  emotion  to  carry 
her  forward  now;  no  impetus  remained  from  her  former 


256  ANGELICA 

terrific  onslaughts.  She  had  simply  to  state  a  request — a 
request  of  the  utmost  importance  to  all  her  future  life;  and 
she  felt  quite  sure  it  would  be  refused. 

Her  very  unpleasant  reverie  was  broken  into  by  the  en 
trance  of  the  doctor.  He  came,  he  said,  to  apologize  on 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Russell  for  her  lateness.  She  wouldn't  be 
able,  after  all,  to  escape  the  entertainment.  He  had  brought 
Angelica  a  large,  marvelous  box  of  sweets,  which  he  offered 
with  a  sort  of  subdued  gallantry.  She  accepted  it  carelessly, 
and  for  a  while  listened  to  his  talk. 

He  had  quite  changed  his  tune  now.  He  couldn't  keep  an 
irrepressible  jauntiness,  or  a  sort  of  airy  flattery,  from  his 
conversation  with  so  pretty  a  girl;  but  he  was  deferential 
and  decorous.  He  and  his  wife  were  both  entirely  resigned 
to  the  idea  of  Angelica  as  Eddie's  wife.  If  Eddie  had  to  be 
married,  one  woman  was  as  good  as  another,  and  Angelica 
was  perhaps  a  little  better  than  a  possible  alternative.  At 
least  they  knew  her,  and  they  had,  in  a  way,  a  sort  of  ad 
vantage  with  her. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  Angelica,  who  had  been  po 
litely  waiting  for  a  pause  in  the  doctor's  war  talk.  "I'm 
tired!" 

She  went  up  to  the  room  she  had  occupied  before,  pre 
pared  to  go  to  bed  at  once ;  but  she  found  the  room  just  as 
she  had  left  it,  all  that  long,  long  time  ago — bare,  dismal, 
the  bed  covered  with  a  sheet,  the  rugs  taken  up,  leaving  the 
floor  bare,  the  curtains  gone,  dark  shades  pulled  down. 

An  angry  flush  spread  over  her  face.  At  first  she  be 
lieved  that  she  saw  here  a  deliberate  insult ;  but  with  reflec 
tion  she  became  satisfied  that  it  was  not  intentional.  It 
was  simply  another  evidence  of  Mrs.  Russell's  magnificent 
indifference.  She  sat  down  in  that  same  little  chair  by  the 
window,  where  she  used  to  sit  a  year  ago.  A  year  ago! 

She  had  plenty  to  think  of,  there,  until  Mrs.  Russell  came 
back. 

Mrs.  Russell  at  once  began  to  blame  Annie  for  having 


ANGELICA  257 

forgotten  to  attend  to  the  room,  but  in  a  subdued  voice,  be 
cause  she  didn't  dare  to  let  Annie  hear  this  wickedly  unjust 
censure.  The  maid  hadn't  forgotten  to  get  the  room  ready; 
it  hadn't  been  mentioned  to  her. 

She  was  summoned. 

"Annie,"  said  Mrs.  Russell,  as  if  to  share  the  blame, 
"here's  Miss  Kennedy's  room  not  ready!  I'll  help  you 
with  it." 

All  she  really  contributed  was  her  curious  ability  to  create 
an  atmosphere  of  bustle  and  cheerful  confusion — the  qual 
ity  which  had  won  her  so  much  praise  for  her  war  work. 
When  at  last  the  room  was  ready,  she  had  become  fright 
fully  bored  with  it  and  -with  Angelica,  and  was  in  a  reckless 
hurry  to  be  off. 

"Good  night !"  she  cried  cheerfully.  "Ring,  if  we've  for 
gotten  anything!" 

And  she  vanished,  leaving  Angelica  alone  with  Annie, 
who  was  just  shaking  a  final  pillow  into  its  embroidered 
linen  case.  She  set  it  straight  on  the  bed,  and  turned,  grim 
as  death. 

"Well!"  she  said.  "I  never  expected  to  see  you  back 
here,  that  I  didn't!" 

She  couldn't  resist  saying  that,  although  she  knew  it  to 
be  improper.  She  was  too  deeply  affronted  by  the  presence 
of  this  creature  here,  and  by  the  necessity  for  waiting  upon 
her. 

Angelica  wasn't  offended. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  dare  say  you  didn't ;  but  you'll  be  still 
more  surprised  when  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  marry  Mr. 
Eddie." 

"Oh,  are  you!"  said  Annie  politely,  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"And  coming  back  here  to  live,"  Angelica  went  on,  with 
a  rather  pitiful  effort  to  win  some  sort  of  friendly  interest. 

"I  sha'n't  be  here  long  myself.  I'm  going  to  be  married, 
too." 

"That's  nice!    When?     Tell  me  about  it" 


258  ANGELICA 

"It  wouldn't  interest  you" 

"Yes,  it  would.    Is  he  the  same  one?" 

"Of  course  he  is!  I'm  not  one  to  be  chopping  and 
changing.  Once  I've  given  my  word,  I  stand  by  it." 

This,  very  obscurely,  was  intended  as  a  reproach  to  An 
gelica,  and  Angelica,  though  not  conscious  of  any  breach 
of  faith  in  such  a  connection,  felt  none  the  less  guilty  be 
fore  the  righteous  Annie. 

"I  know,"  she  said  "Well,  I  hope  you'll  be  happy, 
Annie." 

"I  dare  say  I  will.  It  can't  be  too  soon  for  me.  The 
way  things  have  changed  here — I  never  saw  the  like !" 

"How  have  they  changed?"  Angelica  inquired. 

"There's  that  Courtland  sitting  up-stairs  at  the  table  with 
them,  and  me  expected  to  wait  on  him.  Her  'war  secretary/ 
she  calls  him.  He's  no  more  a  secretary  than  I  am.  Sec 
retaries  write  your  letters  for  you,  but  Courtland — he 
couldn't  write  letters  for  any  one.  He's  ignorant.  And 
him  to  be  set  up  above  me,  like  this !  And  my  young  man's 
a  sergeant  already.  Why  isn't  Courtland  in  the  army,  like 
his  betters?  Well!"  she  added  piously.  "They  may  be 
exalted  above  me  now,  but  the  time  will  come  when  they'll 
all  be  cast  down  so  far  below  me  I  can't  even  so  much  as 
see  them!" 

And  this  meant  Angelica,  too.  She  was  among  the  black 
sheep,  the  unworthy  and  the  wicked,  temporarily  set  above 
the  righteous,  only  to  be  hurled  down  and  utterly  destroyed. 
Annie  bade  her  good  night  with  dour  relish,  in  the  sure  and 
certain  hope  of  a  glorious  triumph.  She  knew  how  it  would 
be  with  this  Angelical 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 


"Then  why  did  you  come  here?"  asked  Vincent. 

"Because  your  mother  asked  me,"  said  Angelica. 

Vincent  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said.  "You've  got  something 
up  your  sleeve.  I  know  you!  All  your  moves  are  calcu 
lated." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  piazza,  where  they  had  encountered  each  other  quite 
alone,  that  early  Sunday  morning. 

"No!"  he  insisted.  "It's  something  to  do  with  me.  One 
of  your  damned  Italian  schemes!" 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  you,"  said  Angelica  steadily. 
"Nothing  at  all.  I  don't  bother  myself  about  you  any 
more." 

He  stopped  directly  in  front  of  her  and  looked  into  her 
face  with  the  vicious,  sneering  laugh  she  had  once  so 
dreaded ;  but  now  it  troubled  her  not  at  all.  She  regarded 
him  as  a  trained  nurse  might  look  at  a  troublesome  patient, 
perfectly  self-possessed  and  assured  in  her  white  linen  frock 
and  her  trim  hair. 

It  filled  him  with  rage  and  hatred  to  see  her  so.  He  felt 
an  uncontrollable  wish  to  insult  her,  to  talk  to  her  outra 
geously,  to  force  her  to  abandon  this  calmness,  this  supe 
riority. 

"You'd  better  bother  about  me!"  he  said.  "You'd  bet 
ter  remember  that  it's  only  through  my  pity  for  you  that 
you're  here.  With  half  a  word  I  could  have  you  turned  out 
of  the  house!" 

259 


260  ANGELICA 

She  was  imperturbable. 

"I  don't  think  so,1'  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about  this,  anyway,  and  it  might  as  well  be  now.  I  don't 
think  Eddie  would  believe  you,  if  you  told  him." 

He  laughed. 

"My  dearest  girl,  there's  a  living  proof!" 

"No,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  at  him.     "There  isn't." 

"What  have  you  done  ?  Murdered  your  baby,  or  sold  it  ? 
That  would  suit  your  thrifty  soul  better.  You  do  love 
money,  don't  you,  Angelica,  better  than  an  inconvenient 
baby!" 

"What  baby?"  she  inquired. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  staring  at  her.  "The  impudence 
of  the  hussy!  So  that's  the  tack!  You're  going  to  lie  out 
of  it?  Going  to  deny  you  ever  had  a  child?" 

"And  how  do  you  know  I  did?  You  never  saw  it,  did 
you?  How  do  you  know  it  wasn't  just  a  trick  to  get  money 
out  of  you?" 

That  astounded  him. 

"Do  you  mean  you  dared  to  try  that  game  on  me?  You 
little  gutter-bred  liar !"  Suddenly  he  began  to  laugh.  "But 
you  didn't  get  much,  did  you  ?"  he  said. 

Angelica  smiled  grimly. 

"Now  then!"  she  said.  "Let's  have  it  out!  I'll  own  up 
that  I  don't  want  you  to  tell — that — to  any  one,  and  espe 
cially  to  Eddie.  It  would  give  me  a  lot  of  trouble ;  but  it 
wouldn't  spoil  things.  I  have  two  good  reasons  for  not 
worrying  about  being  found  out.  In  the  first  place,  I'd 
deny  it  all,  arid  I'm  just  as  likely  to  be  believed  as  you.  You 
haven't  got  a  name  for  being  so  awfully  truthful,  you  know. 
I'd  say  you  were  making  it  up  out  of  spite,  because  I 
wouldn't  have  you.  And  then  I  don't  think  you'd  run  the 
risk  of  telling  Eddie.  You're  too  fond  of  yourself.  You 
know  what  would  happen  if  he  didn't  believe  you.  He'd 
kick  you  out  for  telling  such  lies  about  me;  and  if  he  did 
believe  you,  he'd  never  forgive  you.  You'd  never  get  any- 


ANGELICA  261 

thing  more  from  him.    No ;  it  wouldn't  suit  you  a  bit  to  get 
Eddie  down  on  you!" 

"So  you  think  you're  going  to  manage  me  like  a  marion 
ette?  You  think  you  can  make  any  sort  of  fool  out  of  me?" 

"You've  made  a  fool  of  yourself,"  she  said.  She  wanted 
to  stop  there,  but  she  could  not  resist  the  terrible  tempta 
tion  to  hurt,  in  her  turn,  this  man  who  had  hurt  her  so  bru 
tally.  She  didn't  care  if  it  were  vulgar  or  if  it  were  impru 
dent;  she  wanted  only  to  hurt.  "You  made  a  regular  fool 
of  yourself,"  she  went  on.  "You  acted  like  a  monkey — 
going  down  on  your  knees  to  me  and  raving  the  way  you 
did.  Do  you  remember?" 

She  was  smiling  a  little — the  subtle  and  cruel  shadow  o£ 
a  smile. 

"Don't  you  think  you  were  a  fool?  So  weak — first  in 
one  of  your  childish  rages,  and  then  crying  and  whining 
about  your  sins?  And  then  beginning " 

"Never  mind  the  means  I  used,"  he  said.  "I  got  what  I 
wanted.  I  knew  how  to  get  you,  and  I  knew  how  to  get  rid 
of  you  when  I  was  tired  of  you." 

No !  It  was  too  unequal  a  battle ;  she  suffered  too  much. 
Every  memory  of  that  dead  love  was  too  bitter,  too  shame 
ful,  too  full  of  a  strange,  heart-rending  pain.  He  had  all  the 
advantage;  she  couldn't  wound  him  as  he  could  wound  her. 
She  was  mortally  stricken;  but  she  wouldn't  give  up. 

"You'll  pay  for  all  this !"  she  said.  "I'll  be  the  mistress 
here,  and  if  you  don't  act  as  I  please,  out  you'll  go!  I'll  see 
that  you're  kept  in  order.  You  won't  be  able  to  fool  Eddie 
when  I'm  here!" 

He  cursed  her  savagely. 

"Go  on!"  she  said,  smiling.  "I  like  it!  I'm  glad  I've 
made  you  feel  like  this." 

Vincent  pulled  himself  up  with  a  strong  effort. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "with  all  your  melodramatic  threats  of 
revenge,  you'll  never  be  able  to  do  me  much  harm — not  a 


262  ANGELICA 

hundredth  part  of  the  harm  I've  done  you.     You're  ruined, 
no  good!" 

"Bah!"  she  cried.  "You  and  your  talk  about  ruining 
me!  Am  I  ruined?  Do  I  look  any  worse ?  Am  I  worse  in 
any  way  at  all  ?" 

"Yes !"  he  said.     "You  are,  and  you  know  it." 

He  gave  her  one  bright,  fierce,  scornful  look,  and,  vault 
ing  over  the  piazza,  railing,  walked  off  across  the  lawn. 

Angelica  sank  back  in  her  chair. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  murmured,  with  a  sob.  "That  was  so 
awful !  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  go  home  now,  without  having 
to  see  him  again — ever !" 

She  got  up  and  went  irresolutely  to  the  door.  What  was 
she  to  do  with  herself  to  forget,  to  overcome  her  terrible 
emotion?  She  knew  she  needn't  expect  to  see  either  Mrs. 
Russell  or  the  doctor  before  lunch-time  on  Sunday,  and  it 
was  now  only  ten  o'clock.  She  didn't  know  what  to  do ;  she 
wanted  only  to  be  active  and  to  be  for  a  little  time  alone. 

She  was  not  at  all  fond  of  walking  as  a  pastime,  but  she 
set  out  resolutely  enough  now,  along  the  quiet  country  road, 
trying  to  fix  her  thoughts  upon  Sillon  and  Devery  and  all 
that  frank  and  bright  existence,  and  to  forget  this  world, 
this  house  with  its  intolerable  memories,  this  man,  whose 
very  existence  was  an  outrage  to  her. 

"I  shouldn't  have  come !"  she  told  herself.  "I  was  a  fool ! 
I  guess  it  can't  be  done.  I  guess  you  can't — get  over  a — 
thing  like  that." 

And  in  spite  of  herself  came  the  unwelcome  and  terrible 
thought : 

"How  will  it  be,  then,  when  you  are  married  to  Eddie 
and  living  in  that  house  and  seeing  Vincent  every  day?" 

She  tried  to  escape  from  it.  She  walked  faster,  farther; 
but  the  walk  did  her  no  good.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
country  landscape  to  divert  her  thoughts,  nothing  to  inter 
est  her.  She  had  the  purposeful  gait  of  the  city  dweller; 
she  wanted  to  get  somewhere,  and  she  wanted  to  be  startled 


ANGELICA  263 

into  attention  with  fascinating  shop-windows,  blazing  signs, 
things  and  people  always  passing  her.  The  quiet,  all  about, 
made  the  sound  of  her  own  firm  step  on  the  macadam  road 
annoyingly  loud  and  regular.  The  bright,  clear  sky  over 
head,  the  leaves  somberly  brilliant  in  their  glorious  death, 
filled  her  with  impatience  and  loneliness.  She  turned  back. 

And  the  first  living  creature  she  saw  on  the  road  was 
Vincent,  coming  to  meet  her. 

She  didn't  falter.  They  went  on,  nearer  and  nearer  to 
each  other,  steadily,  rapidly;  but  her  heart  began  to  beat 
with  suffocating  violence. 

"Maybe  he'll  try  to  kill  me,"  she  thought.  "It's  so  lonely 
here — and  he  hates  me  so!  Well,  I  guess  that's  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen  to  me!" 

But  as  he  drew  near,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Angelica!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  Angelica,  why  did  I  speak 
that  way  to  you?  When  I've  been  longing  and  long- 
ing " 

"Better  stop!"  she  said.  "I'd  rather  have  you  talk  that 
way  than  any  other." 

He  had  turned  and  was  walking  by  her  side. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  said.  "All  this  bitterness  and 
wrangling — it's  all  part  of  the  same  thing — part  of  our  love 
for  each  other.  It's  the  exasperation,  the  rage,  of  frustra 
tion.  When  we're  apart  we  suffer  so,  and  in  our  suffering 
we  blindly  try  to  hurt  each  other." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  trying  to  pretend  that  we 
love  each  other?"  she  cried. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "We  do.  We  can't  stop.  We're  mates. 
We  complete  each  other.  We're  made  for  each  other.  Even 
when  I'm  hating  you  so  that  I  could  wring  your  neck,  I 
know  in  my  soul  it's  only  a  phase  of  love." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  not,  with  me." 

But  she  was  trembling  with  a  mysterious  and  unfathom 
able  emotion — a  wicked  and  irresistible  feeling  of  kinship 
with  this  man.  Not  love,  not  tenderness,  not  any  feeling 


264  ANGELICA 

that  she  could  name;  only  this  conviction  that  they  were 
bound  up  together,  that  they  could  never  be  strangers,  that 
it  was  against  nature  that  they  should  part. 

"Marry  Eddie,  if  you  like,"  he  went  on.  "I  don't  care. 
You're  mine.  You  can  be  his  wife;  it  won't  matter.  You 
won't  love  him.  You'll  love  me.  I'll  be  your  lover!" 

Her  face  flamed. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "Oh!  You're  the  wickedest  man  that 
ever  lived!" 

"I'm  not  wicked!"  he  protested  with  earnestness.  "The 
wickedness  lies  in  your  going  to  Eddie  after  you've  loved 
me — in  your  faithlessness." 

"My  faithlessness!"  she  cried. 

"It  was  you  who  left  me,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  was  amazed  at  this  very  characteristic  turn  which  he 
had  given  to  their  talk.  That  he  should  pose  as  the  injured 
one !  But  her  pride  forbade  her  to  mention  her  wrongs. 

"It's  no  use  talking,"  she  said.  "It's  all  over  now.  The 
less  we  see  of  each  other,  the  better  satisfied  I'll  be." 

They  had  reached  the  gates  of  Buena  Vista,  and  Vincent 
appeared  unwilling  to  be  seen  with  Angelica. 

"I'm  going  farther,"  he  said.  "But,  Angelica,  I  won't 
let  you  go!" 


n 

The  visit  was  altogether  a  disappointment.  Angelica  had 
imagined  that  it  would  be  a  sort  of  triumph  for  her,  that 
she  could  at  least  a  little  exult  over  these  "rich  people"; 
but,  after  all,  it  was  nothing  but  an  obvious  condescension 
on  their  part.  She  hadn't  conquered  them;  they  had  ac 
cepted  her  voluntarily — not  reluctantly,  but  rather 
graciously. 

It  was  a  tiresome  day.  Mrs.  Russell's  cordiality  had 
evaporated  overnight,  and  she  was  bored  and  vawning.  She 


ANGELICA  265 

lay  in  a  deck  chair  on  the  piazza,  rustling  through  the  Sun 
day  papers,  and  talking  to  Angelica  now  and  then  with  out 
rageously  forced  politeness.  She  had  an  air  which  Angelica 
knew  of  old;  when  one  of  her  fits  of  ennui  came  on  her, 
she  all  but  pushed  her  bewildered  guests  out  of  the  door. 

But  Angelica  stayed  until  after  supper.  That  was  what 
she  had  planned  to  do,  and  what  she  was  determined  to  do. 
She  too  sat  on  the  piazza  with  a  Sunday  paper,  concealing 
her  sullenness. 

There  wasn't  any  supper,  properly  speaking.  Annie  was 
out,  and  Mrs.  Russell  said  that  their  new  custom  was  to  help 
themselves  from  the  ice-chest — a  plan  which  might  have 
been  jolly  if  the  people  had  been  a  little  less  hostile.  They 
stood  about  in  the  immaculate  kitchen  with  plates  in  their 
hands,  Mrs.  Russell  yawning,  the  doctor  subdued,  Angelica 
severe,  and  Courtland  embarrassed  and  aggrieved.  Vincent 
wasn't  there.  There  was  beer  and  cold  chicken  and  ham  and 
salad  and  tarts. 

"And  coffee  if  you  want  to  make  it,"  Mrs.  Russell  said; 
but  no  one  did. 

After  this,  Angelica  took  her  leave.  Courtland  was  sud 
denly  deprived  of  his  secretarial  dignity  and  ordered  per 
emptorily  to  drive  her  to  the  station,  which  he  did  in  com 
plete  silence.  He  never  ceased  to  resent  this  seesawing,  by 
which  he  was  one  moment  the  promising  young  man  being 
trained  as  a  secretary  and  treated  with  immense,  if  not  ma 
ternal,  indulgence,  and  the  next  minute  was  a  servant  and 
a  rather  rudely  treated  one.  He  endured  it  with  wonder 
and  disgust. 

Angelica  was  able  now  to  gratify  a  long-cherished  desire 
— she  was  traveling  in  the  style  which  she  had  so  much 
admired  in  suburban  ladies.  It  was,  of  course,  out  of  the 
question  to  expect  Courtland  to  help  her  on  the  train.  Noth 
ing  in  the  world  could  have  induced  him  to  do  so;  but  at 
least  she  was  able  to  alight  from  a  motor,  to  buy  three  or 
four  magazines  and  a  box  of  sweets,  and  enter  the  train, 


266  ANGELICA 

thus  burdened,  with  the  proper  air.     She  sat  down  near  a 
window  and  opened  a  magazine. 

A  hand  covered  the  page. 

"Angie!"  said  a  voice,  and  she  looked  up  into  Vincent's 
laughing  face. 

She  couldn't  repress  a  smile  herself — a  sudden  throb  of 
joy;  that  exquisite  feeling  of  comradeship  again. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  he  asked. 

"No.    Why  should  I  be  ?" 

"You  can  spare  this  one  little  evening  for  me,"  he  said, 
"no  matter  what  wonderfully  upright  sort  of  future  you're 
planning.  It  won't  hurt  any  one.  I'll  be  irreproachable. 
I  won't  make  any  demands,  any  requests.  I  won't  evoke  old 
memories.  Before  we  say  good-by,  let  me  have  a  few  hours 
with  the  old  Angelica — my  beloved,  reckless,  adorable  An 
gelica.  Just  to  make  a  memory !" 

"No;  we  better  not!"  she  said. 

It  might  well,  she  thought,  make  a  memory  which  would 
last  far,  far  too  long. 

"Why  not,  Angelica?" 

"I  don't  want  to,  Vincent,  that's  all." 

He  didn't  urge  her;  he  sat  quietly  beside  her,  suddenly 
dejected.  The  train  ran  on  past  dark  woods,  wide  fields, 
lighted  houses;  stopped  at  lively  little  stations  with  their 
lines  of  motors — that  world  of  bourgeois  smartness  which 
Angelica  so  admired.  It  turned  her  thoughts  again  to 
Eddie,  and  to  all  that  she  would  gain  through  Eddie.  She 
would  be  coming  home  to  one  of  these  little  stations,  met  by 
her  own  motor,  to  be  whirled  off  to  her  own  lovely  home, 
with  servants  to  wait  on  her,  with  dignity,  security,  peace ! 

And  a  sudden  disarming  pity  for  Vincent  rushed  over 
her — poor  Vincent  who  had  nothing  to  give.  She  glanced 
cautiously  at  his  face,  gloomy,  perplexed,  his  eyes  clouded 
with  a  sort  of  hungry  dissatisfaction.  He  couldn't  help  but 
look  bold  all  the  time,  but  even  that  boldness  was  pitiful  to 


ANGELICA  267 

her  who  knew  his  weakness,  his  faults,  his  vices,  his  follies. 
She  had  never  felt  so  sorry  for  any  one  else. 

"Walk  home  with  me,  if  you  like,"  she  said. 

They  came  out  into  the  bewildering  brilliance  of  Forty- 
Second  Street  side  by  side,  and  began  walking -east,  slowly, 
in  that  astonishing  hurly-burly  of  crowds,  of  glittering  signs 
winking,  flashing,  pouring  out  into  the  night  sky  a  flood  of 
radiance,  of  hurrying  taxis,  immense  motor-cars,  trolleys, 
strings  of  fiercely  lighted  little  shops,  the  windows  filled  with 
inane  and  shamelessly  overpriced  trinkets  and  souvenirs; 
noise,  blinding  light,  crowds  and  crowds  of  people. 

"Let's  turn  down  Madison  Avenue,"  suggested  Vincent. 

"That's  out  of  my  way." 

"But  you're  in  no  hurry.     Please !" 

She  consented ;  she  had  no  particular  reason  for  not  doing 
so.  He  took  her  arm  as  they  turned  into  the  darker,  quieter 
street,  and  went  on  with  her  so,  like  a  young  lover,  his  head 
turned  toward  her,  listening  eagerly,  watching  her  face. 

"Now  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  what  it  is  that's 
made  you  change  so." 

She  didn't  answer. 

"It  was  you,  and  all  the  dreadful  pain  you  caused  me," 
she  thought,  but  without  bitterness ;  with  only  immeasurable 
sadness  and  regret  that  it  should  have  been  so. 

"I've  been  working  with  two  very  nice  girls,"  she  said 
aloud.  "They've  helped  me,  and  I've  learned  a  lot  from 
them." 

He  asked  her  a  great  many  questions.  He  was  really  in 
terested  in  it  all,  and  in  the  effect  of  this  commercial  adven 
ture  upon  her  crude  soul.  It  was  the  first  time  any  one  had 
shown  a  real  interest  in  her  heart  and  her  mind.  He  didn't 
care  so  much  about  what  she  did,  as  what  she  felt.  She 
could  not  help  talking  freely,  with  a  sense  of  great  relief. 
All  the  observation  of  her  shrewd  and  intelligent  mind,  so 
friendless  and  so  little  understood,  came  to  her  lips  now — 


268  ANGELICA 

not  the  naive  egoism  of  a  young  girl  in  love,  but  the  wit,  the 
vigour,  the  soundness  of  a  woman  of  character. 

They  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  at  Twenty-Third  Street, 
and  went  on  down-town,  for  Angelica  had  promised  to  show 
Vincent  her  millinery  shop. 

*'There!"  she  said  with  pride. 

They  stood  in  the  silent  and  deserted  square,  looking  at 
the  house,  at  the  peacock,  at  the  windows  where  in  the  light 
of  the  street-lamp  the  purple  letters  of  "Angelique"  might 
be  deciphered. 

A  clock  struck  eleven. 

"I'll  have  to  hurry  home,"  said  Angelica.  "Mother'll 
worry." 

She  was  reluctant,  for  she  had  been  happy  in  her  fool's 
paradise.  Of  course  it  couldn't  last,  this  friendly  commun 
ion  with  the  man  she  found  above  all  other  people  in  the 
world  supremely  interesting,  supremely  attractive.  She 
knew  all  about  him,  she  didn't  trust  him ;  but  it  was  some 
thing  just  to  be  with  him,  so  happily,  for  this  one  last  time. 

All  the  old  magic  came  flowing  back  into  her  heart,  there 
in  the  tiny  park,  with  the  dead  leaves  blowing  down  the 
paths,  and  a  sharp  white  moon  to  be  seen  now  and  then  as 
the  wispy  clouds  drew  across  it.  That  yearning  for  his 
sympathy,  for  his  love,  positively  tormented  her.  She 
longed  and  longed  to  draw  near  to  him,  to  feel  his  arm 
about  her. 

As  always,  his  instinct  warned  him  of  his  moment.  His 
hold  on  her  arm  tightened. 

"Don't  go!"  he  said.  "Let's  have  just  this  hour!  An 
gelica,  imagine — if  we  had  a  little  room  here,  some  little 
place  all  to  ourselves !  And  I'd  wait  at  home  for  you,  and 
write  and  dream  about  you,  and  long  for  you  all  day,  while 
you  sat  there  in  your  shop,  bending  your  dear,  dark  head 
over  your  work.  You'd  work  for  me,  until  I  grew  famous 
— and  then  I'd  make  a  queen — an  empress  of  you,  my  be 
loved  woman!" 


ANGELICA  269 

"Don't  begin  that!"  she  entreated.  "We've  had  such  a 
nice  time!" 

"But  think  of  it!  Think  of  sitting  together  in  the  dark, 
in  our  poor  little  room,  our  arms  about  each  other,  weary, 
harassed,  finding  our  joy  and  consolation  only  in  those 
hours  together — living  just  for  that!  Oh,  Angelica!  An 
gelical  Hasn't  this  long,  weary  parting  been  just  an  inter 
lude  ?  Can't  we  begin  again  ?  Take  me  back !  Forgive  me 
and  love  me  and  make  me  over.  Make  me  what  you  wish. 
Come  back  to  me !  Come  back  to  me !  I  need  you  so  ter 
ribly!" 

"Don't!"  she  begged  again,  profoundly  troubled.  "I 
don't  know  how  to  tell  you — how  to  make  you  see  how  use 
less  it.  is.  I  can't — I  don't  feel  as  I  used  to.  All  that  is  dead. 
I'll  never  care  that  way  for  any  one  again." 

"For  me  you  can !" 

She  shook  her  head  dumbly. 

"Vincent,  you've  done  me  enough  harm.  For  God's  sake, 
let  me  alone!  Now,  just  when  I'm  struggling  up  out  of  the 
mud,  you  come  and  try  to  pull  me  down.  Right  here,  before 
this  very  house " 

She  stopped,  unable  to  explain,  even  to  suggest  to  him 
all  that  Fine  Feathers  meant  to  her,  how  it  was  her  honour, 
her  dignity,  friendship,  self-respect,  ambition. 

"You  see  how  I've  changed,"  she  said,  "and  how  I've 
improved.  Why  don't  you  try  to  help  me?" 

"Changed?"  he  said,  stooping  to  look  into  her  face.  "Not 
a  bit  of  it,  Angelica!  You're  nothing  but  my  Angelica,  my 
beloved  girl,  the  mother  of  my  child !" 

"Oh,  stop !"  she  cried.    "Oh,  it's  too  horrible !" 

"It's  too  horrible  that  you  should  repudiate  me.  An 
gelica,  let  us  take  back  our  child  and  start  again,  a  decent, 
honest  life.  You  talk  of  improving  yourself ;  why  don't  you 
think  of  improving  me — of  helping  your  poor  little  child? 
Let's  help  each  other!" 

"You  wouldn't  do  it!     You  know  you  wouldn't!"  she 


270  ANGELICA 

cried.  The  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks  unnoticed. 
"You've  never  even  seen  the  poor  little  thing,  or  asked  about 
him." 

"But  I've  thought  of  him!  I've  been  haunted  by  that 
little  son — yours  and  mine.  Oh,  Angelica,  don't,  don't  for 
God's  sake,  turn  away  from  me!  Polly  will  set  me  free, 
and  I'll  marry  you  and  we  will  have  our  child  again." 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  in  a  whirlpool.  An  intol 
erable  pity  for  this  man  confused  her,  overwhelmed  her. 

Her  troubled  glance,  leaving  his  beloved  face,  fell  upon 
the  ridiculous  peacock  with  its  jaunty  little  paper  hat — fit 
image  for  her  nightmare;  and  a  little  trickle  of  cold,  sane 
daylight  began  to  filter  into  her  darkened  and  suffering 
mind. 

"Angelica!  Let  us  begin  again,  you  and  I  and  our  little 
son " 

"No!"  she  cried  in  a  ringing  voice.     "No!" 

His  face  fell.    He  looked  at  her,  startled. 

"No!"  she  said  again.  "I'd  never  believe  you — not  a 
word  you  said.  I  won't  forget!  I'll  never  forget,  and  I'll 
never  forgive  what  you've  done.  You're  a  liar!  You're 
a  beast !  I  hate  you !" 


Angelica  was  working  in  the  back  parlour  the  next  after 
noon  with  Sillon  when  Devery  brought  her  in  a  letter.  She 
smiled  ironically  and  tucked  it  into  her  blouse,  for  she  knew 
the  writing. 

"I  wonder  how  he'll  be  this  time!"  she  reflected.  "You 
can  never  tell.  Maybe  in  an  awful  rage,  or  sad,  or  making 
love.  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  to  me  now.  I've  finished  with 
him !  But  I  was  really  nearly  gone  last  night." 

She  had  stopped  short  in  her  work  and  sat  looking  va 
cantly  before  her. 

"I  don't  know  why  I'm  such  a  fool  about  that  man. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  him !" 


ii 

She  didn't  trouble  to  open  his  letter  until  she  was  ready 
to  go  home.  Then,  alone  for  a  minute,  she  pulled  it  out  and 
opened  it,  half  sadly. 

"No!"  she  cried  suddenly.     "No!    I  don't  believe  it." 

"What  is  it?"  Devery  called  out  from  the  next  room. 

"Nothing!"  said  Angelica,  with  stiff  lips. 

She  hid  the  letter  in  her  blouse  in  terror  at  the  idea  of  its 
being  seen.  Then  she  was  forced  to  bring  it  out  again,  to 
read  it,  to  make  sure. 

271 


272  ANGELICA 

Wanton,  without  a  heart!  You  thing  from  the  gutter,  willing 
to  give  your  body  to  any  man,  while  you  keep  your  cold  and  poison 
ous  heart  to  yourself,  for  your  own  sordid  aims !  I  swear  to  you 
I  will  never  let  you  destroy  Eddie  as  you  have  me.  It  would  be 
an  outrage  to  call  you  sister,  to  permit  you  to  bear  our  name.  I 
would  rather  die.  And  I  shall  die.  I  have  enlisted  in  the  army. 
I  shall  soon  be  sent  to  France,  and  I  shall  find  Eddie  there  and  tell 
him  your  little  history.  Then  I  shall  die.  Nothing  on  earth  can 
stop  me.  It  will  be  the  supreme  moment  of  my  life  when  I  tell 
Eddie,  when  I  see  his  face,  and  know  that  your  shameless  ends 
are  frustrated — when  I  know  that  you  are  really  ruined. 

"He  won't  do  it!"  she  tried  to  reassure  herself.  "He's 
always  making  threats.  He  wouldn't  really  do  anything  that 
might  harm  himself." 

But  she  knew  that  Vincent  didn't  always  act  from  self- 
interest.  His  passions  were  very  apt  to  overwhelm  him,  and 
malice  was  one  of  the  strongest  of  his  passions.  He  would 
enjoy  exquisitely  telling  the  wretched  tale  to  Eddie. 

For  three  months  she  didn't  draw  a  free  breath.  She 
tried  to  dismiss  her  terror  from  her  mind.  She  said  to 
herself,  resolutely:  "Don't  borrow  trouble!"  "Don't 
worry  about  what  may  never  happen!"  "Don't  cross  your 
bridges  before  you  come  to  them,"  and  all  sorts  of  tags 
from  her  mother's  store.  She  faced  Devery  and  Sillon 
every  morning  with  the  same  hardy  good-humour.  She  was 
dutiful  and  severe  at  home,  as  had  become  her  custom,  and 
to  no  living  soul  did  she  give  the  smallest  hint  of  what  she 
was  enduring. 

Every  time  a  letter  came  from  Eddie,  or  if  a  mail  were 
missed,  she  expected  the  blow  to  fall,  all  her  laboriously 
made  plans  to  be  destroyed,  her  pride  and  dignity  trampled 
underfoot,  all  her  life  wrecked.  She  was  utterly  in  the 
dark.  She  had  no  idea  what  was  going  on,  or  what  had 
already  happened,  and  she  could  take  no  steps  to  gain  infor 
mation.  She  could  do  nothing  but  wait. 

Then  came  another  letter  from  Vincent : 


ANGELICA  273 

I  am  home  on  leave.  That  means  that  we  shall  very  soon  be 
going  over.  Good-by,  Angelica !  I  have  a  hard,  bitterly  hard  task 
before  me.  I  must  hurt  Eddie  and  I  must  hurt  you.  As  for  me, 
there  is  nothing  before  me  but  death.  Deserted  and  ruined  as  I 
am,  I  long  for  death.  Your  love  was  all  that  pleased  me  in  life. 
With  that  gone,  there  is  nothing  but  a  waste,  bleak  beyond  endur 
ance.  I  shall  only  beg  Eddie  to  forgive  my  vile  treachery,  as  I  beg 
you  to  forgive  my  sins  against  you.  Forget  your  presumptuous 
and  wicked  dream  of  marrying  that  good  man.  That  can  never  be. 
He  will  forgive  you,  as  he  will  forgive  me,  but  he  will  never 
forget. 

Good-by,  Angelica.    I  give  you  to  God!  VINCENT. 

Asleep  and  awake  that  picture  haunted  her — a  vision  of 
Eddie,  mud-stained,  horribly  pale,  sitting  on  a  box,  with  a 
candle  flickering  on  the  ground  beside  him,  in  a  dugout  with 
mud  walls  and  great  puddles  of  filthy  water — the  sort  of 
thing  she  had  seen  in  the  cinema,  ghastly,  desolate,  with  an 
incessant  play  of  rockets  and  bursting  shells  overhead ;  and 
Vincent  standing  before  him  in  one  of  his  fine  attitudes, 
so  handsome,  so  strong,  so  noble,  telling  him.  She  knew 
how  he  would  dwell  upon  the  details,  with  what  colour  he 
would  describe  her  caresses,  her  kisses,  heightening  the 
temptation  just  as  he  would  heighten  his  remorse. 

It  didn't  occur  to  her  that  Vincent  might  encounter  some 
obstacles  to  a  prompt  meeting  with  his  brother,  with  all  the 
different  services  and  all  the  vast  battlefield  to  be  consid 
ered.  She  fancied  him  being  at  once  directed  to  Eddie's 
dugout  like  a  stranger  in  a  village. 

She  lived  in  a  long  nightmare.  She  didn't  know  how  the 
blow  would  fall — whether  she  would  come  home  to  find  a 
letter  from  Eddie,  casting  her  off;  whether  Mrs.  Russell 
would  be  there  to  tell  her;  whether  she  would  have  a  letter 
from  some  stranger,  a  friend  of  Eddie's — a  lawyer,  per 
haps.  But  what  she  most  feared  was  the  idea  of  coming  to 
Fine  Feathers  some  morning  and  seeing  Sillon  and  Devery 
suddenly  turned  hostile.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  bear 
that.  It  would  do  for  her. 

But  weeks  went  by,  and  nothing  at  all  happened.     One 


274  ANGELICA 

day,  while  she  was  in  the  back  parlour,  she  heard  Mrs.  Rus 
sell's  voice  in  the  front  room ;  but  the  very  tone  of  it  reas 
sured  her.  She  wanted  to  buy  a  hat,  and  she  wanted  An 
gelica  to  let  her  have  it  cheap;  so  she  was  extraordinarily 
agreeable.  She  had,  moreover,  some  sort  of  idea  that  it 
would  help  Angelica  in  the  eyes  of  her  partners  to  be  seen 
in  friendly  converse  with  a  lady  like  herself. 

"I  wish  you'd  come  and  see  me!"  she  said.  "I'm  so 
lonely!  They've  all  gone — Vincent,  you  know,  and  now 
poor  Courtland's  been  drafted.  Dear  me!  It  does  seem  as  if 
they  ought  to  be  able  to  make  up  a  big  enough  army  out  of 
those  who  wanted  to  fight,  without  dragging  in  the  unwill 
ing  ones.  Poor  Courtland  will  make  a  very  bad  soldier; 
he  hates  it  so.  He's  too  independent.  Vincent  was  really 
marvelous.  If  you  could  have  seen  him  in  his  uniform! 
And  he  told  me  to  be  sure,  if  I  saw  you,  to  tell  you  not  to 
forget  him.  He  even  went  to  Polly  and  begged  her  to  be 
reconciled  to  him  before  he  left,  perhaps  never  to  return. 
I  went  to  see  her,  too,  to  see  if  I  could  influence  her;  but 
what  do  you  think?  She's  adopted  a  baby,  and  she's 
wrapped  up  in  it.  She  says  it  fills  her  life,  and  she  doesn't 
want  any  one  else.  She's  very  hard  on  Vincent.  Those 
frightfully  maternal  women  always  are  dreadfully  hard  on 
men,  don't  you  think?  I'm  not  surprised  at  her  adopting 
a  child;  she  was  so  absorbed  in  the  one  she  lost.  I  couldn't 
do  a  thing  with  her.  She  said  she  had  done  with  Vincent. 
Poor  boyf  She's  narrow — provincial.  Awfully  selfish, 
don't  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Angelica.  "I  suppose  she  can't 
help  how  she  feels." 

"Well,  I  thought  it  was  horrible  to  see  her  there,  so  happy 
with  that  baby,  and  so  callous  about  her  husband.  Not  even 
her  own  baby — some  little  waif  she's  picked  up.  It's  a 
wretched,  puny  little  thing,  too ;  she  has  to  give  it  the  most 
unceasing  care.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear  any  day 


ANGELICA  275 

that  she's  lost  it.  Oh,  my  dear !  What's  that  heavenly  mass 
of  purple?" 

"That's  a  negligee  I'm  making,"  said  Devery,  thus  ad 
dressed. 

"Could  I  possibly  wear  purple?"  inquired  Mrs.  Russell 
earnestly.  "Do  please  let  me  see  it!  Oh,  how  marvelous! 
Could  I  possibly  slip  it  on  ? 

"Am  I  hideous?"  she  asked  Angelica  anxiously,  when  she 
had  got  the  purple  garment  on  and  stood  before  the  long 
mirror. 

"It's  not  quite  your  style,"  said  Angelica,  with  great  seri 
ousness.  "I  think — but  Miss  Devery  will  give  you  sug 
gestions." 

"A  dark  green,"  said  Devery,  "with  dull,  blackish  blue 
overtones — not  a  floating  thing  like  this,  Mrs.  Russell. 
You're  slender  enough  to  stand  a  straight,  narrow  garment. 
Not  exactly  a  negligee ;  I  never  advise  them,  there's  so  little 
use  in  them ;  but  what  I  call  a  boudoir  gown." 

"How  much  would  it  cost?"  asked  Mrs.  Russell. 

"One  hundred  dollars,"  said  Devery. 

Mrs.  Russell  looked  at  her,  then  at  Angelica.  They  both 
had  their  professional  manners,  polite,  deeply  interested,  but 
firm.  There  was  no  mercy  to  be  had  from  them.  She  or 
dered  the  gown ;  then  she  bought  a  "sports  hat"  of  Angelica 
for  a  staggering  sum,  and  prepared  to  take  her  leave. 

But  now  Miss  Sillon  came  in,  pleasant  and  businesslike. 

"I'd  be  very  pleased  to  make  you  a  ten  per  cent  discount, 
madam,"  she  said;  "or  for  any  one  personally  introduced 
by  our  Miss  Kennedy." 

"Oh,  Sillon!"  said  Angelica,  when  she  had  gone.  "Wasn't 
that  nice  of  you?  You  can't  imagine  how  anything  like 
that  pleases  her." 

"Angelique,  my  child,  we'd  do  more  than  that  for  you," 
said  Sillon. 


276  ANGELICA 

in 

"Telephone,  Mile.  Angelique!"  cried  Devery. 

"Would  you  mind  asking  who?  I've  just  got  this  thing 
pinned." 

"It's  Mrs.  Geraldine,"  Devery  called.    "Can't  you  come?" 

Angelica's  heart  stood  still. 

"This  is  it!"  she  thought.    "Now  it's  come!" 

She  went  with  leaden  feet  to  the  telephone  in  the  back 
room,  and  sat  down  before  it.  She  stared  at  the  instrument 
for  an  instant  in  horror.  What  was  it  about  to  reveal? 

She  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Yes!"  she  said.     "Is  this  you,  Mrs.  Geraldine?" 

"Can  you  come  to  see  me?"  said  that  well-known  voice. 
"There's  something " 

"Why?"  she  cried.     "What  is  it?    Is  anything  wrong?" 

"The  baby's  quite  well;  but  there's  a  piece  of  news  you 
ought  to  know." 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.     "Oh,  tell  me!     What?" 

"Don't  lose  your  head,  Angelica ;  but  come  when  you  can. 
I'll  be  in  all  the  afternoon.  And  don't  worry.  It's  only 
that  I  think  you  ought  to  know  before  all  the  others." 

She  didn't  wait  to  hear  the  rest.  She  left  the  telephone 
and  turned  to  her  friends  a  distracted  and  blanched  face. 

"I've  got  to  go !"  she  said. 

"Is  anything  wrong?"  asked  Sillon  kindly,  alarmed  by 
her  look. 

"Yes!     I've  got  to  go!" 

"Can't  I  go  with  you?" 

"No,  no,  no!" 

Angelica  was  pinning  on  her  hat,  without  even  a  glance  in 
the  mirror,  and  was  starting  out  when  Devery  stopped  her. 

"Your  bag!"  she  said.  "Or  are  you  coming  back  to 
day?" 

"Never!"  she  cried.     "Never!" 


ANGELICA  277 

They  stood  together  watching  her  go. 

"Poor  kid!"  said  Devery.  "It  must  be  something  very 
wrong!" 

Angelica  was  out  of  sight,  hurrying  along  the  street, 
trembling  with  eagerness  to  embrace  this  anguish,  to  get  it 
over,  to  be  done  with  her  torment. 

She  rang  Polly's  bell,  and  Polly  herself  admitted  her 
visitor.  She  looked  ill  and  haggard,  with  eyes  heavy  and 
dull,  and  reddened  with  sleeplessness — or  was  it  with  tears? 

"Come  in,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "Sit  down,  Angelica. 
Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "Hurry  up  and  tell  me!  They  all 
know  it?  Eddie's  written!  Oh,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  I  knew 
right  away !  Eddie's  written  to  say  that  Vincent's  told  him. 
Oh,  my  God !  He  said  he  would,  and  he  has !  That's  what 
he  went  for.  Oh,  my  God!  All  my  life  ruined!  Oh,  Mrs. 
Geraldine !" 

"My  dear,  try  to  calm  yourself,"  said  Polly.  "There — 
sit  down.  You're  making  yourself  ill.  Vincent  hasn't  told 
any  one.  He  never  will,  Angelica." 

"He  said  he  would!" 

"He  never  will.    He's  dead." 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  faint  sob. 

"Dead?"  cried  Angelica.     "Vincent?    In  the  war?" 

"The  transport  he  was  on,  struck  a  mine." 

"Then  he  never  got  there?    He  never  told  Eddie?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Geraldine!"  she  cried.    "Then  I'm  safe!" 

Polly  turned  away. 

"Don't  you  feel  sorry?"  she  asked.  "He  was  very  young 
to  die." 

Angelica  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  can't,"  she  said;  "not  just  now.  I  can't  feel  any 
thing  but  glad." 


278 


She  stopped  on  her  way  home  to  tell  Sillon  and  Devery 
that  "it  was  all  right."  She  let  them  know,  modestly,  that 
there  was  a  certain  person  now  in  France  in  whom  she  was 
profoundly  interested,  and  that  she  had  feared  some  bad 
news  in  regard  to  him.  Then  she  went  to  a  quiet  little  res 
taurant  and  ate  a  delicious  little  dinner  all  alone,  and  in  the 
chilly,  cloudy  evening  walked  home — a  long  walk. 

She  was  enjoying  a  feeling  of  exquisite  and  complete 
triumph.  She  had  won!  She  was  safe  now,  her  troubles 
over.  Certainly  God  had  helped  her.  She  was  young, 
beautiful,  beloved;  she  was  about  to  be  rich.  She  had  made 
a  gallant  fight  against  great  odds,  and  she  had  conquered. 

She  greeted  her  mother  with  unusual  affection  and  was 
willing  to  talk  with  her  for  quite  a  time,  about  her  business, 
about  the  shortcomings  of  the  tenants,  about  everything  in 
the  world  except  what  had  happened.  That  she  didn't 
mention. 

She  began  slowly  to  undress  while  her  mother  was  still 
in  the  kitchen,  ironing  a  collar  for  her  to  wear  the  next  day. 
She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  in  her  dainty  camisole 
— a  beautiful  woman,  with  her  delicate  bare  arms,  her  slen 
der  shoulders,  her  curious,  glowing  black  eyes  in  her  pale 
and  lovely  face 

And  suddenly,  almost  as  if  she  saw  it  in  the  glass  beside 
her  own,  another  face,  fierce,  hawk-like,  rigid  and  white, 
with  bright  hair  spread  out  and  floating  as  if  in  the  sea. 
Her  dead  lover! 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

»r 

The  parlour  now  rejoiced  in  a  new  and  pretty  little  "set," 
put  in  there  only  the  week  before  in  order  to  receive  the 
visits  of  Eddie.  On  one  of  the  chairs  sat  Mrs.  Kennedy, 
dressed  in  silk,  her  hair  skilfully  fluffed  by  her  daughter,  her 
hands  manicured,  her  feet  in  soft  new  boots.  She  was  well 
aware  that  she  had  never  looked  so  common,  so  perfectly 
the  janitress  and  scrubwoman.  Her  strained,  haggard  face, 
her  faded  eyes,  her  blunted  and  withered  hands  belied  her 
fine  attire.  They  could  have  belonged  only  to  a  woman  who 
had  worked  brutally  and  hopelessly.  She  was  years 
younger  that  Mrs.  Russell,  but  she  might  have  passed  for 
her  mother. 

Her  patient  hands  were  folded  in  her  silken  lap;  she  had 
nothing  to  do,  and  very  little  to  think  about.  The  blasphe 
mous  triumph  was  accomplished;  she  was  about  to  see  Sin 
crowned  and  rewarded,  Innocence  betrayed  and  abandoned 
—in  other  words,  Angelica  married  to  Eddie.  She  was 
disgusted  with  life,  thoroughly  disappointed  with  her  God. 
She  took  no  pleasure  in  these  preparations,  or  in  any  of  the 
comforts  and  enjoyments  before  her.  Nothing  sustained 
her  but  a  vague  sort  of  hope  that  her  just  God  would  re 
trieve  Himself  by  stopping  this  wedding  in  some  way — with 
thunderbolts,  or  the  flaming  swords  of  archangels.  And 
she  was  well  aware  that  one  couldn't  really  count  upon  any 
thing  of  that  sort. 

Out  in  the  kitchen  she  could  hear  the  servant — she,  the 
charwoman,  servant  of  servants,  sitting  in  the  parlour  while 
another  woman  drudged  for  her!  In  half  an  hour  an  auto 
mobile  was  coming  to  take  them  to  the  church,  and  then  they 

279 


28o  ANGELICA 

were  going  off  to  Buena  Vista,  going  to  leave  all  this  pov 
erty  and  humiliation  behind  forever.  She  had  been  given 
to  understand  that  she  wasn't  to  live  with  her  child,  only 
to  visit  until  a  suitable  home  could  be  found  for  her.  She 
was  to  have  an  apartment  and  a  servant  all  of  her  own ;  she 
was  to  furnish  the  place  as  she  wished,  and  she  was  to  be 
provided  with  a  new  wardrobe. 

"And  start  a  new  life,"  Angelica  told  her. 

"I'll  need  to!"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "This  one  is  about 
done." 

And  although  a  great  deal  of  this  was  paid  for  by  Angie 
herself,  out  of  the  money  she  had  saved,  her  mother  had 
never  expressed  gratitude.  She  didn't  feel  any.  She  had 
never  at  any  moment  of  her  life  been  so  utterly  dissatisfied. 

She  glanced  at  the  new  clock. 

"Angie!"  she  called.     "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Dressing!"  called  back  a  gay,  a  too  gay  voice. 

"He'll  be  here  in  half  an  hour." 

"I'll  be  ready!" 


n 

She  was  standing  before  the  mirror  in  the  bedroom,  ad 
justing  her  hat,  very  delicately  touching  her  hair  under  its 
net,  tilting  her  head  from  side  to  side,  frowning  thought 
fully,  trying  to  foresee  the  effect  she  would  produce  upon 
Sillon  and  Devery,  Mrs.  Russell  and  Polly,  who  would  be 
in  the  church.  She  pictured  herself  and  Eddie  walking  up 
the  aisle — Eddie  still  in  uniform,  tall,  severe,  impressive, 
and  beside  him  his  beautiful  young  bride.  She  was  wearing 
a  plain  dark  brown  broadcloth  suit,  a  big  black  hat,  and  a 
magnificent  set  of  silver  fox  furs  Eddie  had  given  her.  She 
looked  like  a  princess.  They  couldn't,  any  of  them,  find  a 
flaw  in  her — in  her  appearance  or  in  her  bearing.  None 
of  those  born  ladies  could  approach  her.  She  looked  what 


ANGELICA  281 

she  was  determined  actually  to  be,  the  equal  of  any  one  of 
them.  There  was  a  position  ready  for  her,  and  she  was 
competent  to  fill  it. 

Eddie  had  been  so  delighted  with  the  change  in  her.  She 
hadn't  seen  much  of  him  since  his  return  at  the  end  of  the 
war,  but  all  his  hours  with  her  had  been  a  perpetual  service 
of  praise.  He  had  hurried  to  her  his  first  free  minute;  he 
had  wanted  to  give  her  anything,  everything — extravagantly 
and  ridiculously.  He  had  been  tactful  and  kindly  with  the 
rather  contemptuous  Mrs.  Kennedy.  He  had  been  to  see 
Devery  and  Sillon,  and  had  won  their  hearts.  He  had  been 
quite  perfect. 

And  all  these  thoughts  were  merely  flitting  across  her 
mind  like  birds  flying  above  a  frozen  pond.  Under  the  ice 
were  horrors  beyond  naming.  She  did  her  utmost  to  ignore 
them,  to  think  of  those  things  as  dead  and  buried  and  for 
ever  gone  from  her  world ;  but  she  could  not. 

All  that  night  she  had  been  dreaming  of  her  drowned 
lover,  floating,  horribly,  in  the  sea;  and  with  him,  directly 
beside  him,  her  baby — their  baby — its  little  body  extended 
like  his,  its  tiny  -white  face  upturned.  And  she  and  Eddie 
sat  on  the  deck  of  a  ship,  she  facing  these  two  corpses  which 
came  smoothly  along  behind  them,  and  she  was  using  all 
her  wit,  all  her  charm,  to  keep  Eddie  from  turning  his  head 
and  seeing  them. 

The  dream  haunted  her  and  mingled  with  her  wretched 
thoughts.  For  now  that  she  was  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
her  goal,  now  that  the  cup  was  in  her  hand,  to  be  raised  to 
her  lips,  she  was  filled  with  a  desperate  impatience,  a  terri 
ble  fever  of  haste  and  fear.  Her  hands  were  burning,  her 
knees  weak  and  trembling. 

"Oh,  just  this  one  more  hour!"  she  murmured.  "If  only, 
only,  only  nothing  will  happen!" 

She  looked  past  the  moment,  to  the  haven  of  happy  years 
beyond,  as  a  man  sailing  a  perilous  channel  might  look  ahead 
to  the  wide  and  quiet  sea  beyond. 


282  ANGELICA 

"Something  will  happen!"  she  told  herself.  "At  the  last 
minute  some  one  will  tell  him — scream  it  out  in  the  church 
— stop  the  wedding.  Oh,  God!  Just  help  me  now!  Let 
me  get  safely  married  to  Eddie,  and  I'll  try  my  best  to  be 
good!" 

She  was  conscious  of  being  a  little  too  pallid,  too  worn, 
and  she  rubbed  on  her  smooth  cheeks  a  little  rouge.  It 
looked  horrible,  and  she  wiped  it  off  frantically. 

"No!  It  must  be  my  eyes  that  look  so  queer.  I  wonder 
if  Eddie'll  notice,  and  think  I  look  queer!  It  might  make 
him  suspicious." 

She  forced  herself  to  smile. 

"Of  course  I'm  nervous,"  she  said.  "Every  one  is.  It's 
nothing — nothing  at  all !" 

She  suppressed  a  scream  when  the  door-bell  rang.  She 
listened,  behind  her  half-closed  door,  until  she  heard  Eddie's 
voice  talking  quite  in  his  usual  tone  to  her  mother.  No  one 
called  her.  Nothing  had  happened. 

She  stood  still,  in  a  sort  of  daze,  getting  no  further  for 
ward  in  her  dressing,  until  her  mother  entered  the  room. 

"He's  going  to  take  me  down  and  put  me  in  the  auto," 
said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "Then  he's  coming  back  after  you. 
You'd  better  hurry.  It's  late,  and  I  don't  see  any  use  for 
you  to  be  keeping  all  those  people  waiting.  That's  not  a 
very  good  way  to  begin." 

"All  right!"  said  her  daughter  hurriedly.  "Go  on, 
mother !" 

She  set  to  work  in  haste  to  add  the  finishing  touches  to 
her  dress,  fastening  the  little  bar  pin  with  diamonds  given 
her  by  Mrs.  Russell,  drawing  on  her  white  kid  gloves. 

She  heard  him  coming.  She  heard  him  stop  at  the 
kitchen  door,  and  tell  the  woman  working  in  the  kitchen 
that  she  might  go.  Then  he  came  and  knocked  at  her  door. 

"Ready,  Angelica?"  he  called  out. 

She  gave  one  glance  in  the  mirror;  then  she  opened  the 
door  with  a  forced,  polite  smile.  There  stood  the  poor 


ANGELICA  283 

soldier  who  wished  to  give  her  all  he  had — poor,  ardent 
Eddie,  longing  so  to  take  her  back  to  his  beloved  home,  and 
give  it  into  her  keeping.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  of  her 
little  room,  looking  at  her,  and  he  too  was  smiling — a  smile 
as  strained,  as  artificial  as  her  own. 

"Angelica!"  he  said  softly. 

He  had  grown  quite  pallid,  as  he  did  when  deeply  moved, 
and  his  hands  clenched  and  unclenched  nervously.  His  face, 
his  expression,  had  changed.  He  was  struggling  his  utmost 
to  look,  and  to  be,  tender  and  respectful ;  but  his  heart  was 
beating  with  an  emotion  neither  tender  nor  respectful.  He 
wiped  his  damp  forehead,  and  came  a  step  nearer,  always 
smiling,  but  with  eyes  strangely  brilliant  and  fixed. 

"No!"  said  Angelica  sharply.  She  knew  how  he  felt — 
she  knew  too  well  how  he  felt.  It  sickened  and  shamed  her. 

"My  darling  girl!"  said  Eddie.     "My  Angelica!" 

"Don't!"  she  said.    "Don't  say  that!     I'm  not!" 

"But  you  will  be,  very  soon!     I " 

"We  ought  to  go,  Eddie.     It's  late!" 

"Then  kiss  me,  just  once!" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  ghastly  affectation  of  co 
quetry. 

"No,"  she  said.     "You'll  have  to  wait!" 

"Just  as  you  like,  Angelica,"  said  the  poor  fellow.  "You 
know,  don't  you,  dear  girl,  that  my  chief  wish  in  life  is  to 
make  you  happy?  I  wouldn't  for " 

"Then  do  come  on,  or  I'll  think  you  don't  want  to  marry 
me  at  all!" 

He  turned  instantly,  and  she  followed  him — just  to  the 
door  of  her  room;  but  no  farther.  He  looked  back. 

"Aren't  you  ready?"  he  asked. 

"Eddie!"  she  cried  in  a  high,  dreadful  voice.  "Eddie! 
/  can't  do  it!" 

"Can't  do  what?"  he  asked,  startled. 

"I  can't  do  it !    I  can't  marry  you !    Not  unless  I  tell  you !" 


284  ANGELICA 

He  stared  at  her  for  an  instant,  his  quick  and  clear  mind 
at  work  upon  this. 

"What  is  there  to  tell  me  ?"  he  asked.  "Let's  have  it !" 
He  was  alert  and  suspicious  now.  "Come  on!  Let's  have 
it!"  he  repeated. 

"Eddie!"  she  began,  but  a  great  horror  at  her  own  folly 
assailed  her. 

She  felt  impelled  toward  this  abyss,  while  she  struggled 
madly  to  turn  aside,  aghast  at  the  destruction  before  her. 
Perhaps  even  now  it  wasn't  too  late ;  perhaps  she  could  dis 
arm  the  suspicion  that  she  had  aroused,  could  stop,  and  not 
tell  him  any  more. 

Thank  God,  it  wasn't  too  late !  She  hadn't  told  him.  She 
felt  like  a  person  cutting  his  own  throat — the  knife  had  only 
pricked — he  is  still  alive,  and  in  a  mad  exultation  of  thank 
fulness. 

She  smiled. 

"I — I  got  engaged  to  another  fellow,"  she  said;  "but  it's 
all  over  now." 

"When?     Who  was  it?" 

"Last  year." 

"Who  was  it,  I  say?" 

"He  was — a — a  factory  superintendent,"  said  Angelica. 
"But  it's  all  over  now.  I'm  awfully,  awfully  sorry,  Eddie." 

"You  mean  you — engaged  yourself  to  this  fellow  while  I 
was  in  France?  After  you'd  promised  to  marry  me?" 

"I  know  it  was — wrong;  but  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me, 
Eddie!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  forgive  you,  Angelica;  but  oh,  how 
could  you  ?  I'm  so  disappointed  in  you !  It  was  so  dishon 
ourable!  It  was — low." 

"I  know!  I  know!  I  know!"  she  cried,  with  an  uncon 
trollable  impatience.  "But — forgive  me  and  forget  all  about 
it.  I'm  so  sorry.  What  more  can  I  say  ?" 

"Did  he — did  you  let  him — kiss  you?" 

"Yes!"  she  murmured. 


ANGELICA  285 

"Angelica!" 

"Oh,  but  I'm  sorry!"  she  cried  desperately. 

Eddie  stood  looking  at  the  floor  for  an  instant ;  then,  with 
fierce  suddenness,  he  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  pulled  her 
forward,  so  that  he  could  look  into  her  face. 

"Look  here!"  he  shouted.    "How  far  did  this  thing  go?" 

"It  was  nothing!"  she  cried. 

"You  said  he  kissed  you.  You  said  you  were  engaged  to 
him.  Some  coarse,  common  brute  of  a  workman  mauling 
you — I  know  those  people — I  know  their  love-making.  God, 
Angelica!  You  make  me  sick!  You've  no  fineness,  no — 
decency!"  he  cried. 

He  searched  her  face  with  eyes  that  terrified  her. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"But,  Eddie —      '  she  stammered. 

"I  don't  believe  you!"  he  said  again.  "You're  lying. 
This  fellow  was  your  lover !" 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried. 

"Answer  me !    Tell  me  the  truth !" 

"No !  I  did !  I  did  tell  you  the  truth.  There  was  nothing 
—like  that." 

"Swear  it !  Say,  'I  swear  to  God  I  was  absolutely  faithful 
to  you  all  the  time  you  were  away.'  ' 

His  eyes  never  left  her  face ;  but  she  repeated,  firmly : 

"I  swear  to  God  I  was  absolutely  faithful  to  you  all  the 
time  you  were  away." 

He  looked  puzzled.  He  sat  down  heavily  in  a  chair  and 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  so  rough. 
Only — it's  a  terrible  disappointment  to  me,  Angelica.  I 
never  imagined  such  a  thing.  I  almost  wish  you  hadn't  told 
me.  I  keep  seeing  you  and  some  hulking  fellow  in  over 
alls- 
She  was  sobbing  bitterly,  standing  before  him  like  a  for 
lorn  and  penitent  child. 


286  ANGELICA 

"Don't  cry !"  he  said  more  kindly.  "Don't  cry,  my  dear. 
I'll  try  to  forget  it.  I'll  try!" 

"Will  it — not  make  any  difference?"  she  sobbed. 

"I'll  try  not  to  let  it.  Only,  Angelica — it  was  often  so 
hard — over  there — not  to — so  hard  to  be  true  to  you — not 
even  to  think  of  any  one  else;  and  when  I  think  of  it,  and 
how  I  hated  myself,  even  for  my  thoughts — I  feel  like  a  fool. 
I  don't  believe  you'd  have  cared  what  I  did.  You  don't  feel 
as  I  do.  You  don't  value  loyalty  as  I  do." 

She  seized  this  opening. 

"No !"  she  cried.  "I  shouldn't  have  cared,  one  bit,  what 
ever  you  did,  if  only  we  love  each  other  now!" 

"No,  don't!  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  want 
you  to  care,  as  I  do.  I  want  you  to  be  fine  and — high- 
minded." 

"Eddie,  I'm  not.     There's  no  use  pretending  that  I  am." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  pretend  to  be.  I  want  you  to  try 
to  be." 

"I  will!" 

He  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"Now,  then !"  he  said.  "It  won't  do  to  keep  them  all  wait 
ing  any  longer.  Are  you  quite  ready?" 

"Do  you  mean  for  us  to  get  married  just  the  same?" 

"Of  course!"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  be  such  a  prig.  I've 
simply  got  to  forget  what  you've  told  me,  and  thank  Heaven 
that  I've  got  you  after  all.  You  might  have  married  the 
fellow!" 

He  was  his  own  kind  self  again,  but  she  could  see  that 
his  great  pride  in  her,  his  great  joy,  were  gone. 

"Come!"  he  said  again.    "We  shall  be  very  late." 

But  she  prevented  him  from  leaving.  She  caught  him  by 
the  arm  and  stood  before  him,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"Eddie !"  she  cried,  with  a  gasp  that  seemed  to  tear  her 
heart  out.  "I've  got  to!  I  can't  deceive  you.  Oh,  God! 
It's  so  awful!" 

He  didn't  move  or  speak. 


ANGELICA  287 

"Eddie,"  she  said,  "it  was  that!" 

"Ah,  it  was !"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  polite  surprise. 

"I  had  a  baby." 

A  shudder  ran  through  him,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  in 
mortal  pain. 

"You  can't  ever  know  what  I  suffered !  Oh,  Eddie,  Eddie, 
I've  been  punished  enough  for  what  I  did!  And  the  poor 
little  baby— 

"Never  mind!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  she  could 
hardly  hear  him.  "Don't  tell  me  any  more.  I  don't  want 
to  know."  He  undid  her  ringers  from  his  arm.  "I  want  to 
get  away,"  he  said.  "Good-by!" 

But  she  stopped  him  again. 

"And  the  man  was  Vincent!"  she  screamed.  "Now! 
Now !  Now  you  know !" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

The  next  morning,  just  at  the  usual  hour,  Angelica  en 
tered  the  back  parlour,  where  Sillon  and  Devery  were  work 
ing  side  by  side.  They  both  looked  up  in  a  sort  of  stern 
surprise,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak  first. 

She  stood  before  them,  a  quivering  smile  on  her  lips.  She 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  tears ;  but  after  a  silent  moment  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  look  at  them  with  a  sublime  and  touching 
bravery. 

"Can  I  come  back?"  she  asked. 

They  were  both  speechless. 

"I  don't  want  to  explain,"  she  said,  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"Not  ever!  But  if  I  can  come  back,  I'll — go  on — just  the 
same." 

Miss  Sillon  got  up. 

"Certainly!"  she  said  pleasantly.  "If  you  like,  we'll  go 
on — in  the  old  way.  We'll  forget  all  this.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Devery?" 

"Of  course !"  said  Devery. 

But  no  matter  how  they  tried,  their  cordiality  was 
strained,  their  looks  averted.  They  knew,  all  three  of  them, 
that  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  this  thing  could  be  for 
gotten.  Half  of  the  letters  of  "Angelique"  had  gone  from 
the  windows — and  how  much  more  had  gone  as  well  ? 

But  at  least  their  friendship  endured.  They  neither  ques 
tioned  her  nor  blamed  her;  they  simply  took  her  back,  as 
whole-heartedly  as  was  possible  to  them.  Whatever  in 
credible  and  discreditable  occurrence  may  have  interrupted 
that  dazzling  wedding,  they  would  not  repudiate  her. 

288 


ANGELICA  289 

She  went  to  her  cupboard,  took  out  the  box  in  which  she 
had  kept  her  odds  and  ends,  and,  sitting  down  at  her  old 
table,  spread  out  the  glittering,  gay  scraps  before  her. 

"I'm  going  to  stick  to  business  now !"  she  said,  with  a  sob. 


THE   END 


A     000  821  408     2 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 


DATE  DUE 

1  1  IAI     1       O         i 

JUN  1  t       1 
-II|L13198| 

C/39 

f/CSD  Libr. 

